


Dragonsolver

by beng



Series: Arrangements From Afterlife [2]
Category: Dragon Age II, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: A willing heart, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Blood Magic, Butterfly Effect, F/M, Gen, Honour, Loyalty, Mind Control, Multiverse, Slow Burn, Team Laketown
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-10 20:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 73,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beng/pseuds/beng
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As per her agreement with Thorin, Hawke goes to Erebor to set things right for the line of Durin. Really, what had they been thinking? When you deal with a dragon, you hire a professional!</p><p>And that's how a self-assured blood mage finds herself in a world without lyrium, trying to convince a proud and distrustful king that some shades of grey are lighter than others. Her motivation is slipping, her memories of Kirkwall becoming a lash and a tripping wire. Who is she after she betrays all that she was? </p><p>  <i>“I sense the darkness in you, little sorcerer,” he almost purred, “the same darkness that lies heavy on Thorin Oakenshield’s mind. Why do you fight it? Why do you not reach for the power that is at your fingertips, and rise to greatness in the night that is coming?”</i></p><p>(Actually a double helix story, with Kili/Tauriel taking up almost half of the screentime...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

The first thing she became aware of was the dank smell of earth under her nose. Then, its texture — slimy and cold against her cheek.

„Ugh!”

Hawke sat up quickly and cleaned the mud from her face. Then she stood up, checking the state of her armour and her belongings. The sack was on the ground a couple feet away, and her staff she had been holding tight even as she had lay unconscious on the forest floor. She didn’t know how she’d got here, but other than a little stiff, she felt fine.

Her memory seemed to be fine too, as she recalled everything that had happened to her, up to the Tal-Vashoth spear that had ended her on the shore of the Waking Sea. The sky had been a deep, deep blue, and the last thing she’d heard had been the waves lapping softly against the cliffs. Funny, the things you notice as you bleed to death.

She remembered also the afterlife, its subdued colours and the music that, lacking in nuance, compensated with loudness. She hadn’t noticed it back there. Had there been any taste to her vodka? Any smells and textures? Hawke shrugged. It didn’t matter now.

As she gathered her things and started walking, she went over the plan she had come up with during that last meeting with Thorin and Snape. It had felt quite simple then. In the end, she’d thought she had figured it out quite nicely, even the parts that didn’t include the dragon.

Now, however, travelling through Mirkwood and turning her head at the lightest noise that dripped from the sickly, silent branches, she had to admit that perhaps it was not going to be that easy. Things never were, once you start actually doing something.

Nevertheless, she was serious about cleaning up Thorin’s mess, while Severus Snape made sure the massacre in Kirkwall never happened. It was a wretched city, but it didn’t deserve... what Anders did to it.

A strange feeling rose in her chest at the thought of the mage. It wasn't exactly painful — and Hawke decided to ignore it. Now she just hoped that in some parallel world Snape succeeded where she had not.

At least the spiders were not much of a problem, and Hawke considered it a good start. She had already stumbled upon some stinky dead ones, and the small pairs and trios that remained were not much of a challenge for the ex-Champion of Kirkwall.  
  
Stopping abruptly at yet another pile of spider carcasses, Hawke pulled out her journal and checked her notes. If the spiders had been dealt with, then Thorin and his company have already been brought in by the elves. The blood was still sticky, so it had to have happened today, which meant the dwarves would be escaping by dawn. So far, so good.  
  
Climbing above the treetops and comparing the sun’s position with the map Thorin had drawn for her during one of his rants, she estimated that she would reach the banks of the Forest River downstream of the Woodland Halls by nightfall. Thorin had said there was a path along the river, so from there she would then cover their escape from the orcs after the elves return to their halls.  
  
Theoretically she knew they had escaped to Laketown mostly unscathed, but she still wanted to make sure there were no orcs to chase them. She wasn’t taking any chances, slim as they were. She was determined to do things properly this time.  
  
Sweet Andraste, Mother of Mercy, she hoped her planning had been enough.

 

*

Tauriel ran, the forest a grey-green blur racing past her and the river rapids swirling down the cliffs. She ran, thinking of soft brown eyes and promises carved in stone, and the selfish policy of her king, and everything that was going wrong with her forest. She disagreed! She was just a woodland elf, but she disagreed with all the passion and conviction she had!

She stopped short as she noticed a patch of burned ground lying across her path. Three orcs lay dead there, one of them additionally missing his head.

The Captain frowned and quickly glanced around her. The path was narrow, with rapids on her left and a steep cliff on her right, and somehow it looked like somebody had sprung a trap on the orcs here. She wondered if Thranduil had ordered some guards to follow the vile creatures while she and Legolas had returned with their hostage, but somehow she didn’t believe it.

Suspicious, she proceeded with more caution, and soon stumbled over another couple of orcs lying in a pool of their blood. There were no visible cuts on their bodies, but slow, black blood was still oozing from their eyes, their noses, their ears. Tauriel shuddered, her elven senses picking up something wretched and corrupted. Something dark was lurking further down the river path, but it had been killing orcs, so what kind of a creature could it be?

Unexpectedly, there was a roar and clamour and noise, such as only a bunch of orcs could make, and a moment later a group of ten or more descended on her from around the bend.

Tauriel had already whipped out her bow and shot the first one straight through the eye, but a second and third soon replaced him. Only a moment later the elf had to reach for her daggers as she attacked them, cursing the treacherous path.

“Get back!” somebody called from the top of the cliff, and suddenly there was a wall of fire crushing the orcs, a wave of chilling frost as they froze solid, a bolt of lightning that shattered them to pieces. Stunned and alarmed, Tauriel could only follow the wild dance of the elements, finishing off the few orcs that remained, and skipping over their bodies to reach the end of the attacker chain. The last two she killed single-handedly.

“That will teach them,” a woman’s voice announced smugly from above, and Tauriel immediately reached for her bow again.

There was a slender short-haired woman standing on the cliff, dressed in dark clothes and spiked armour that looked like something an orc would wear. She also held some sort of a bladed staff trained on Tauriel.

“I’ll put it down if you put down the bow,” the woman said. “It would be only polite, considering we just fought those bastards together.”

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Tauriel demanded.

“I’m a friend. Making sure nothing hurts the dwarves,” the woman replied calmly.

“The escaped ones? Why?”

The woman raised an eyebrow and paused. It looked to Tauriel as if she couldn’t decide whether to answer truthfully, and the Captain’s lip curled in distaste. Of course. Again she had to measure up to somebody’s expectations. It just never ended for the red-headed Silvan elf, so young and in such high-standing position. Valar, grant her patience!

“I want to help them. Thorin and his company, and Laketown, and everybody else,” the woman finally said. “I know who the dwarves are and I know of their quest. I also know that the dragon is still alive, and I know what will happen if they wake it. Trust me, you don’t want that.”

“I must look strange to you,” she gestured at her rough metal armour, the wolf pelt on her shoulders and the brutal, sharp spikes on her gauntlet and shoulder. “But I swear to you I’m not here to harm them, or you, or elves, or men in general. All I ask it that you either help me, or at least not interfere.”

Tauriel lowered her bow a fraction of an inch.

“You haven’t told me your name or where you’re from yet.”

The woman huffed and shook her head.

“I’m from the south,” she declared. “So far south that it actually starts to get colder if you go any further, and there’s a city called Kirkwall. That’s where I’m from. My name is Marian Hawke, but everyone just calls me Hawke.”

“Hawke,” Tauriel repeated lowering her bow another notch. “And how did you end up here? How do you know all these things? How did you kill those orcs, for I assume it was your work?”

The woman nodded at her staff.

“With magic. I was told there is another wizard in your lands — Tharkûn? Maybe you know of him?”

“I do not know of anyone by that name. But there is much that I do not know,” the elf admitted lowering her bow altogether, though her questions were far from answered. “However, you were right saying that we fought a common foe today. Come then, and let us end them before they escape!”

Hawke flashed her a grin as she threw down her sack and then quickly climbed down the cliff herself. Again Tauriel caught a vague sense of darkness that emanated from the wizard woman, but it quickly hid beneath her quick smile, her piercing blue eyes and messy short hair. Wary, Tauriel decided to keep an eye of the stranger. Either way, it was better to keep the strange creature close, rather than let her traipse all over the forest. As for any helping, she could decide on it later.

Soon the Captain was running again, followed by less graceful but strong and regular footfalls behind her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I thought I'd start with Snape and Kirkwall, but Hawke just took over and _demanded_ to be let loose on Middle-earth... Who am I to say no to a blood mage?  
>  As far as appearances go, [Sirinne's Hawke](http://sirinne.deviantart.com/art/6-387606037) (and Anders) is totally canon for this story :)  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

Another elf, Legolas, had joined them as they travelled down the Forest River.

Hawke didn’t know how exactly Tauriel had explained her presence or her skills, as they had switched to some form of Elvish. For a moment Hawke had wondered how the common tongues of Thedas and Middle-earth seemed the same, while the elven languages sounded decidedly different. On the other hand, elves here at least had a functional language, which couldn’t be said about the Dalish. Merrill would have driven them mad with questions.

Hawke had sighed and let it slide. She was convinced that the two elves also had a million questions for her, and she dreaded opening that can of worms.

They reached the lake by sunset, and although the elves declared that they didn’t need any sleep, they insisted that orc hunting should wait till morning. With a somewhat relieved sigh, Hawke stretched and flopped down on her bedroll. She was used to jogging a whole day along the Wounded Coast or up and down the Sundermount, but she always slept like a log afterwards. Bodahn would prepare supper for her, and Anders would joke that she was more wolf than woman as she tucked in after a day in the wilds.

Pursing her lips, Hawke fished out her journal and flipped through it once more, her sloppy runic script barely legible in the dying daylight. She had noted down everything that she could remember Thorin telling her about his journey, but there were definitely some blanks and questions left.

“Do either of you know when Durin’s Day is? It’s in two days, right?” she frowned as she glanced up at the elves. The prince was crouching amid the rocks investigating some bloody rags while his red-headed companion was gazing out over the lake, a pile of driftwood in her arms.

“Hey, elves,” she called again and waved. “When is Durin’s Day?”

“What day?” Legolas shouted back at her.

“Dwarf New Year!”

“You know a lot about Durin’s Folk, for someone who has just arrived to these lands,” said Legolas standing up and coming over to her. “You call Gandalf by his Khuzdul name and you seem to know of dwarven festivals. Nevertheless, you seem to forget the hatred and suspicion with which they treat all elves, and the Woodland Realm in particular. They do not share their secrets easily, and I do not know of what day you speak.”

“I do,” Tauriel called out to her, returned from her musings. “It’s the first day of the last moon of autumn when the sun and moon are in the sky together.”

Legolas stared at her.

“Well, unlike you, my prince, I have been talking to our prisoners.”

“Talking. You’ve been giving them ideas, Tauriel. Especially that ugly one.”

“He’s not ugly,” she exclaimed, dropping the pile of wood she had gathered and pointing an angry finger at Legolas. “You’re just being… _Dôl gîn lost!_ ”

“ _Goston angin, Tauriel!_ ”

“ _O man? A am man theled? Ni Tawarwaith, Legolas; adar lîn, aran nîn…_ ”

“ _Adar? Man i theled pedig o adar nîn?!_ ”

Whatever they were arguing about, Legolas looked honestly upset. Hawke watched them, fascinated, and then decided there definitely were upsides to elves _not_ having a functional language.

“Please, I’m sorry, but — Durin’s Day?”

Tauriel huffed and looked up at the evening sky, hands on hips and eyebrows drawn.

“There will be no moon tonight,” she said. “The first day of the new moon is tomorrow.”

Hawke cursed under her breath. How could she have miscalculated the distances so badly? Or was it the speed of barrels that she had underestimated? Blast and damnation, she should have gone straight to Laketown.

But then, what if the orcs had killed somebody on the river path? They hadn’t the first time round, but how could she be sure… Hawke’s eyes fell on her companions. Oh. Thorin hadn’t known that two elves had followed them down the river. Glancing at the journal in her lap, Hawke shivered, thinking about what else the dwarf could have missed. There was potentially a huge hole in her plans.

“So the dwarves will be on that mountain by tomorrow evening,” she said. “We have to move on!”

“To the Lonely Mountain?” Tauriel asked incredulously. “Why would we follow them there? I thought we were trying to stop them, and to stop the orcs.”

Hawke shook her head.

“The orcs yes, but I have to follow them to Erebor. I have to stay with Thorin, or they will wake the dragon and set it loose on Laketown!”

“More reason to stop them!” exclaimed Legolas.

“No! Stopping them would solve nothing, because Durin’s Folk have no place in the Blue Mountains. Erebor is their homeland, and they _have_ to take it back. They just need one thing from that mountain, and then they can return in larger numbers and take on the dragon. There is no other way!”

Both elves exchanged an unbelieving glance.

“How did you come by such knowledge, passion and loyalty for Thorin Oakenshield’s cause? What did he promise you in return?” Tauriel prodded cautiously.

Hawke hung her head instantly regretting her big mouth.

“The truth is… He… Well, it was my idea to join him,” she tried to explain. “He hasn’t promised me anything. He hasn’t even met me. It’s complicated.”

“So you, a wizard from the south, one woman,” Legolas pointed a finger at her, “just decided to join with the king in exile and have a go at the dragon, at Smaug the Golden? And to do what? Even if your motivation is true, do you have any idea how huge and dangerous he is?”

“Your fireballs would be a gnat’s bite for him,” added Tauriel.

“You cannot kill that dragon. But you will wake it, and it will burn you, the dwarves, and then Laketown. And probably even the Woodland Realm. The Desolation will stretch from the Misty Mountains to the Iron Hills, from the Grey Mountains to Rohan.”

“And how long do you think it will just sleep there?” Hawke argued. “How long before he wakes on his own and decides it’s high time to increase the wastelands anyway?”

“But you can’t kill it!”

“I _have_ killed dragons!” Hawke spat. “And I know that fire is useless. That’s why there are other spells, other schools of magic…”

Tauriel started agitatedly walking to and fro while Legolas stood with his arms crossed and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Look,” Hawke said, closing her journal and putting it back in her sack. “Either way we have to get to Laketown as soon as possible. Then you can try to organize an evacuation while I try to catch up with Thorin and prevent him from doing anything stupid.”

Legolas sighed, his shoulders drooping.

“It is the best we can do at the moment,” he said, “and I’m already sorry for the whole region.”

Tauriel narrowed her eyes at him. “Whether we wish it or not, it will not simply pass like a cloud, _mellon_. I told you we are part of this world, we cannot close our gates and sit by and wait, and hope and justify our non-involvement. Let us Eldar play our part, be it the two of us, and let us press forward under the stars tonight, so we arrive at Laketown by sunrise.”

Legolas just glared back at her. “Is it really about the world, _mellon_ , or is it about the dwarf?”

“It’s a foolish question, Legolas. The dwarf is part of this world,” the Captain shrugged, adjusting the weapons on her back and starting down the path that led from the mouth of the Forest River to the Laketown bridge.

Whatever that last exchange had been about, the Captain seemed definitely impatient to get to the town. Hawke agreed with her wholeheartedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I woefully admit I butchered some Sindarin up there. In a way it's meant to remain between the two elves forever, but if you're curious, dear readers, then here's the idea:  
> — _[..] Your head is empty!_  
>  — _I worry for you, Tauriel!_  
>  — _About what? And for what purpose? I am a woodland elf, Legolas; your father, my king…_  
>  — _Father? What’s my father got to do with it?_


	3. Chapter 3

The bleak autumn sun hung unforgivably high in the sky when Tauriel and her companions, in various states of exhaustion, arrived at Laketown. After answering a hundred or so questions from a sleazy guardsman, Tauriel had reminded him that her King was the sole reason Laketown’s trade was still breathing, and that she was said King’s favourite official, after which they were finally allowed entrance through the shore-side gate.

Hurrying with her company towards the central square, Tauriel shot a dirty look at Legolas. Why did the prince never pull rank? Did he truly believe in equality and all that, or was he that caught up between the two cultures of Mirkwood? Tauriel didn’t know. But she was young and impatient, and these small snags, where she expected him to do one thing as her superior and he did something else as a subordinate simple archer, were terribly annoying.

Once the direction was clear to the black-haired wizard, she broke off in a run, the elves in tow and the blade on her staff glinting in the sun. Nevertheless, they had arrived too late. There were no festive processions, no boats, no dwarves, only some fishermen sitting on the wharf and mending their nets.

“That sodding nug-humping son of a bitch!” Hawke shrieked and struck her staff on the boardwalk. Blue sparks flew, and Tauriel gasped at the casual display of magic. Legolas turned sharply on the distraught woman.

“This is not the time or place, wizard,” he hissed.

“Either way, it looks like the dwarves have left. What do you intend to do now?”

“We have left some orcs behind us, and they will be in Laketown by nightfall, if they continue to follow Thorin Oakenshield,” Tauriel noted.

The wizard bit her lip. She looked around the square, the narrow boardwalks, the waterways, the ramshackle structures on decaying piles, and Tauriel could well imagine how it all looked to the Adan. It was a sickly place, a pale memory of what it had been mere decades ago. Even so, the Captain could not leave it open to an enemy’s attack that she knew was coming.

“I have to follow them,” Hawke muttered. “I _have_ to stop that disaster from happening, whatever it takes, whatever it costs me. If I fail in this, if I fail again…”

Tauriel took hold of her shoulders and looked the wizard in the eyes.

“Calm down, Hawke. You have been on your feet for a whole day and night now, and I don’t know when you have last eaten or slept. But you are no elf, _curunírwen_ , you need to rest before you can follow your dwarves again.”

“I cannot _afford_ the luxury of sleep, elf!”

“And yet, you _will_. Otherwise, you will break, Hawke, and what use will you be then to your King Under the Mountain?”

The wizard’s shoulders slumped, and she looked at Tauriel with indescribable sadness. Her eyes were beautiful, clear blue with darker rings around the irises, but there was pain and despair lurking in their depths. The elf captain had been watching her attentively for the last few hours as they had been running along the coast, and she knew that the dark-haired woman’s burdens were many. Nevertheless, they were hers to share as she wished; Tauriel would never pester her.

Suddenly, without a word, Legolas leapt past them and disappeared in a blur. By stars above, that annoying self-important little princeling! Regardless of what he had noticed, Tauriel was going to hit him on the head if he continued messing with her like that!

Tauriel bolted after him, Hawke on her heels.

They ducked beneath cloth lines and leapt over crates and narrow waterways, trying to not lose the sight of the blonde elf. Fortunately he left a trail of angrily muttering townspeople in his wake.

They caught up with him in front of an unassuming building on the eastern outskirts of the town.

“ _Explain yourself_ ,” Tauriel spat in Sindarin, not trusting Hawke with the treacherous eddies of their relationship. Legolas glanced at her in surprise.

“ _When I left the Halls, against your father’s wishes, I did so on my own responsibility,_ ” she continued. “ _Then you decided to join me, and, whatever the King thinks of me now, I have sworn to protect your life, my prince! We are outside the Woodland Realm, and this is not a friendly hunting trip! We are out on a mission, and I am responsible for you! And on missions there is a chain of command, and either you are taking responsibility, or you are taking orders, there is no third way!_ ”

Legolas flinched as if she had hit him, and Tauriel wished she had found other, kinder words to bring him back to his senses. Nevertheless, she was a Captain for a reason, and that reason was that she didn’t allow recklessness in her ranks. Tauriel herself was reckless enough for the whole Guard as it was. Legolas crossed his arms and straightened up, using his height against her and staring at her through narrowed eyes.

“ _Forgive me, Captain, for my thoughtlessness. I did, indeed, fail to consider the political implications of falling into freezing lake-water or getting trapped in a clothes line while following one of the dwarves that we seemed to have set out for in the first place. Captain._ ”

“The dwarves are still here?” Tauriel wondered, switching back to the common tongue.

“Saw one of them enter this very building.”

“Then what are you two arguing about?” Hawke interrupted angrily. “Let’s get inside!”

In a blink of an eye the wizard was on the stairs that led up to the door, and Tauriel moved to follow her, when Legolas stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

“ _I would still have an answer, mellon,_ ” he said quietly, the wounded pride of a prince set aside for the moment.

“ _An answer to what, Legolas?_ ”

“ _To your own question: am I your lord, or an archer of your company? Is there truly no other way, where we are equals, working together like a pair of hands?_ ”

Tauriel swallowed and slowly shook her head.

“ _We will never work like that, Legolas. I am sorry. I think you don’t see it the way I do. You think something will change me, change the way we are. But it won’t. I am Tauriel — sometimes foolish, and sometimes reckless, a loyal and useful guard your father likes to keep at an arm’s length, and you are Legolas — heir to the Realm, born in a land that perished two thousand years ago. You are so much wiser than me, you have seen so much more of the world. I will always be an uncultured, semi-wild Silvan next to you, but that is what I am._ ”

“ _You know I don’t care for these differences, Tauriel. If it is my father who is the problem, I will speak to him, I will show him that you are worthy._ ”

Tauriel shook her head again, her heart breaking for the prince.

“ _It's not that. We are not… working. We’re not of one spirit, Legolas. How many times have I unknowingly upset you, how many times have you wounded me with some thoughtless comment? Even now I cannot rely on you, I cannot know what you are going to do, and I cannot protect you. Don’t you see?_ ”

Legolas was staring out over her shoulder, his jaw clenched and nostrils flared. She knew he wouldn’t lash out at her, he was too well-mannered for that. Sad as she was for her friend, Tauriel mentally shrugged. Sindar were so aloof. Sometimes it would do them good to just hit or hug each other and get it over with. Finally, he breathed deep and looked back down at her.

“ _Then I abide by your orders, Captain,_ ” he said with a half-hearted smile.

Tauriel smirked back. “ _A wise decision, my prince. But one more reckless move on your part and you’re going home to daddy._ ”

Legolas cuffed her. _A Elbereth_ , finally!

*

Hawke’s cantankerous drinking buddy from afterlife had, of course, mentioned that he left Kili, Fili, Oin and Bofur in Laketown — it was yet another thing that he regretted —, but still she felt awfully disappointed when she found only these four dwarves in the waterfront building. Hawke really had hoped that maybe Thorin was still in town; it’s not as if he had told her every detail of his trip, down to the weather and times of departure.

So, she had found herself in a bargeman’s house, stopped in the door by seven pairs of wary eyes.

“I’m a friend,” she quickly stated, raising her hands in an open gesture that she hoped was universal. “My name is Hawke, I was following your company in order to help you. Some elves came with me, they’re downstairs. They don’t mean you any harm either.”

Either it was her dry, clipped tone, or her extensive experience in appearing confident and friendly at the same time, but the master of the house, a tall man in a shaggy coat, slowly let out his breath and relaxed.

“Bard,” he said, extending his hand, and Hawke shook it. “My children: Bain, Sigrid and Tilda; and my guests: Fili, Bofur and Oin. The fellow on the table is Kili.”

Hawke turned to the dwarves, who had dismissed her quite quickly, returning to their previous activities. The eldest had picked up a mortar and was muttering something in a strange language, while the dwarf with the funny hat was rinsing some plants in a bowl of water. The youngest, fair haired and braided, collapsed back on the stool where he had been sitting and hid his face in his hands.

It felt strange to look at them in flesh, after she had heard Thorin talk about them over a pint or two. They certainly looked different from her beardless Varric and the mostly bald Carta thugs.

That was when, musing on their complicated braids and beards, her gaze stopped on the fourth dwarf, on Kili.

“He’s been like this for hours,” Bard’s youngest said, wringing out a towel and placing it on the dwarf’s forehead. “They say he was hit with an orc arrow.”

“Aye, and no simple arrow, that,” added Bofur, handing the washed plant to Oin. “If it were any simple arrow, Oin here would have fixed that laddie in a moment.”

Hawke swallowed as she approached the table. The young dwarf was sleeping fitfully, soft moans escaping his lips as he dreamt. Black pus was oozing from a hastily dressed wound on his thigh, and his whole leg was drenched in blood.

Hawke’s vision swam. She caught herself on the edge of the table as her knees gave out, and she forced herself to take deep breaths, but this close to the wound the air _stank_ , and she almost threw up. She felt kind hands guiding her to a chair, and she collapsed, suddenly overwhelmed by her memories, oblivious to the din of concern around her. The dull ache she’d been feeling in her chest ever since she found herself lying on the ground in Mirkwood, blossomed into a razor-edged darkness that threatened to swallow her whole.

Kirkwall was never going to be just a fact in her head. She would never be able to forget it. There will always be mortars, and herbs, and sounds, and smells that would invariably remind her of Anders, of his clinic in the sewers and the warmth of his blood on her hand, on her dagger. Hawke doubled over and gasped for breath.

This was so real. It had never hurt so much while she had still been on the run along the Waking Sea; she had probably been too numb for pain. And then she had been dead, and the _knowledge_ of it had been awful, but maybe you simply couldn’t feel certain things in the afterlife. But this now, this was as real as getting hit by a Stonefist.

Maker’s mercy, if only she could hold him again!

She slowly became aware of a cold, dripping towel on her head, and as she opened her eyes, Bard’s youngest was standing in front of her, biting her lip and awkwardly patting Hawke’s shoulder.

Hawke forced a smile on her lips.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I think I’ll be fine now.”

“You sure?” the girl asked. “The elf lady said to keep your head cool.”

Hawke glanced up over Tilda’s shoulder, and sure thing, there was Tauriel standing near the sick dwarf, cutting his trousers off and muttering about the wasted use of aloe on dirty, hairy, bloody legs while Kili was weakly protesting and trying to shoo her away. Legolas was by the window, probably keeping a lookout for orcs or other trouble makers.

“Thank you,” Hawke muttered when Tilda pressed a mug of chamomile tea in her hands. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the calming infusion. The memory trap seemed to have faded for now. Maybe she really just needed to sleep for a few hours. Have something to eat and drink. Then she could get a horse and catch up with Thorin on the far side of the Long Lake — surely, a horse was faster than a boat? Or was she making another miscalculation? What form was that lake anyway?

Damn Thorin, what was she supposed to base her decisions on?

Quickly checking on Tauriel and Kili — she couldn’t bring herself to watch the elf captain’s healing — she took her tea and stepped out on the balcony, which offered a view of the majestic Lonely Mountain. She tried to assess the distance.

“You’re really thinking of following them?”

Hawke turned to see that Girion’s heir had joined her. She hugged the clay mug to her stomach and shrugged. “Somebody has to stop the dragon.”

“Glad to see at least someone shares my concern,” he smirked.

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“Do you?”

Hawke nodded. For some reason she couldn’t look the man in the eye. She felt that she’d be lost, she’d be compelled to answer all his questions, tell her full story, and she really didn’t want to do that. The full story would have to include the fact that she wasn’t overly concerned about the dragon, at least, it wasn’t her primary concern.

She knew that either by her, or by Bard’s hand, the dragon would be killed. It would be better to kill it outside the city, but if that failed, well. Maybe it was not such a big price to pay, to ensure that at least Laketown’s history followed its pre-determined path. She had hard time imagining Bard assuming authority over Laketown and claiming the lordship of Dale if he remained but a bargeman. And how exactly did that Master of Laketown perish? Some parts in Thorin’s tale had been even fuzzier than others.

Hawke sipped her rapidly cooling tea.

“I’m afraid they will wake the dragon, but I also think that they will manage to hide from it. It’s their kingdom,” she said, nodding at Erebor glistening white in the distance. “They must know doors and passages where a dragon cannot pass. And then, I fear, it will decide to punish Laketown instead. So either the dwarves must be stopped, and I think it is too late for that now, or the dragon must be killed before it reaches Laketown.”

She felt the man boring her with his gaze but she refused to turn. She still had to figure out the distance to the mountain, but assuming it was about as high as Sundermount, if steeper, and standing alone, instead of among other hills, she’d say it was about four hours’ ride away.

“How can I get around the lake to the mountain?” she asked. “If I ride, can I reach it by east shore?”

The bargeman sighed, leaning on the banister and glancing into the distance.

“If you really want to go after that madman, then, aye, you take the east shore. There are no rivers falling into the lake from that side, so it would be faster than going by the west shore where Forest River flows down from Mirkwood. Then, if your horse is fast and sure-footed, you should be able to reach the foothills in about half a day.”

Hawke gulped and looked at the mountain again. That was farther than she had estimated. Or maybe the road was rougher, or maybe there were nasty swamps that she’d have to go round. Either way, it looked like she had to leave immediately, no time for sleep.

“Thank you, serah,” she muttered absent-mindedly.

Bard looked at her suspiciously but didn’t say anything. Judging from what he must think of her dedication, he might as well consider it some form of Khuzdul. Hawke didn’t care to correct him.

“Do you know where I can find a fast and sure-footed horse in this town?” she asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaaaay, we've reached the milestone where I thought this deserved some relationship tags :D
> 
> Also, a thank you goes to iscatterthemintimeandspace for reading and checking!
> 
> * curunírwen — wizard-maid


	4. Chapter 4

It was late autumn, and in a town built on piles, there were not many herbs to be found, certainly no _athelas_ , and not even goldenseal, plantain or yarrow. Tauriel took a deep breath to battle her feeling of helplessness.

“Drink this,” she said quietly, pressing a mug of tea in Kili’s hands and helping him raise his upper body from the table. The young dwarf was weak and feverish, but he drank the hot liquid obediently, watching Tauriel through heavy-lidded eyes.

The Captain shivered, unable to break the gaze. She could only hope that hot chamomile infusion — one of the few things the bargeman’s household had in abundance — would help his battered body to sweat out the infection, but at the same time, she knew it was too little, too late, and that it was no simple infection in the first place. The Captain closed her eyes. She was going to kill every orc this side of the Misty Mountains, if the dwarf archer died.

Letting him gently down back on the table, Tauriel sighed and looked around the room. Hawke and Bard had gone outside, and Legolas had left for the shore to scout for orcs. Fili, Bofur and Bain were looking for some _athelas_ , or kingsfoil as they called it.

Tauriel refused to believe there was none to be found in this town. Without that small weed, Kili was lost, and Tauriel strongly disagreed to such outcome even if she wasn’t sure why she cared that much. She sat down on a stool by the window and furtively wiped away a stray tear.

The Captain had seen people die before, in battle and on sickbed, passing away from their wounds. Elves were not invincible, after all. And then, same as now, she had done her utmost to save them.

But this felt different, and somehow even more important. Maybe it was the bright, audacious dwarf himself who was different.

He had been a trespasser and a prisoner, annoying in his presumptuousness and captivating in his sincerity. And then, when she saw him injured and found out it had been from a Morgul arrow, he had become a symbol of light and goodness against the darkness of Dol Guldur; her chance to prove to the world that the evil shall not triumph as long as Tauriel had anything to say about it.

She had not lied to Legolas when he had questioned her motives. But then, at some point between entering Bard’s house, laying her hands on the wounded archer and ordering everyone out to look for _athelas_ , he had morphed for her into… Kili.

Sighing, Tauriel stood up to cover her sleeping patient with a blanket, and involuntarily hesitated by his side. She reached out her hand and gently brushed away some sweaty locks from his face. Her hand lingered in the dark, matted hair, trailed lightly over his rough stubble and caressed the blanket over his heavy shoulder.

Tauriel’s eyes widened, and she jerked back her hand as if burned.

The dying archer in front of her was not a symbol. He was not a proof, not a prisoner on the other side of the bars. They were both _here_ , on the same side, and he was as real as a dwarf, a fighter, a man could be — all broad shoulders, coarse stubble and large, calloused hands, and groping him like this was most certainly improper! Tauriel swallowed and stepped back from the table.

At that moment the door burst open, and Bain rushed in, holding a small clump of weeds in his hand, a wide grin on his face.

“I found it, lady Tauriel! I found your _athelas_!”

And just like that, the house sprung back into action. Tauriel ordered Bain to wash the plant under running water, and meanwhile cleaned out the mortar. Sigrid put on a kettle to prepare another calming infusion, and Oin fished out of his pack some new, clean bandages. Hope was rekindled.

Fili and Bofur returned shortly, informing them that Hawke and Bard had went to get some horses, and for the first time the three dwarves were actually arguing who that woman was and why in the name of Mahal she wanted to join their stubborn leader, and where she had bumped her head, to believe that Thorin would take her in just like that anyway.

Tauriel smiled and shrugged. Chopping up the valuable herb and grounding it into a paste, she quickly recounted how she had met with the wizard and who Hawke was. Even if Tauriel wasn’t sure she believed the wizard’s tale, it was the best she could give. Let the dwarves decide for themselves what to make of it.

Kili was wide awake when the elf removed the bloodied aloe compress from his thigh.

“What are those fools talking about? Who’s Hawke?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“It’s nothing. You’ll see her later. Now scream, if it makes it more bearable,” she muttered under her breath, wondering at his fortitude or pride.

The dwarf grinned through his pain. “Might give my brother wrong ideas, screaming my head off when a beautiful lady touches me,” he whispered.

Tauriel pursed her lips and smeared the _athelas_ paste straight into the wound. The dwarf screamed, arching his back and hitting the edge of the table with his fists. The raw sound tore through Tauriel, and she gasped, her eyes filling with tears again.

“Hold him!” she shouted, and six pairs of hands, even little Tilda, reached out to help her.

Tauriel put her hands on his wounded thigh and again could not look away from his eyes as she began to chant in Sindarin.

“ _May the blessing that was given to me be sent from me to him, may he be released from death,”_ she prayed. _“May the blessing that was given to me be sent from me to him, may he be released from death! May the blessing..._ ”

She knew she sounded desperate, and she was. One short look had revealed how much worse Kili’s wound had become over the last couple of hours, and Tauriel feared that her skills would not be enough. So she poured her heart and all her spite, her conviction, her strength into the ancient spell, felt the light of the stars coursing down her arms and pouring into the cursed wound at her hands. Kili moaned again, but he didn’t look away, and she pushed at the darkness with all her might, to cleanse him from that inevitable death, to bring him back to her.

Tauriel gasped, hit with the realization of what was happening, but it was too late now. Hazel eyes locked on brown, her spirit reached out to him, and not a hundred eagles could have held her back from this madness.

In the blinding starlight, there was only the two of them, Kili and Tauriel, and they were free of their duties and history. There was no yesterday or tomorrow, no eternity and no afterlife to be spent in tearful separation, until the end of time and Dagor Dagorath. In the radiant light, there was only here and now, and then Kili, who in his recklessness had been reaching out for her since the first moment their paths crossed in Mirkwood, took her hand in his, and she was lost.

Collapsing in a chair, Tauriel kissed his hand and prayed for Ilúvatar’s mercy.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one, before we dive into the mess that is Hawke's patience and... khm. Who do you think owns horses in Laketown? :D
> 
> Thanks to iscatterthemintimeandspace for checking! ^^


	5. Chapter 5

“So where are you from, Hawke?” Bard asked as he walked briskly in front of her.

“South,” Hawke smiled cheekily at the back of his head.

“How far south? From Gondor?” He looked back over his shoulder, and Hawke shrugged. She had no idea where that was.

“No, not Gondor.”

The bargeman sighed in frustration. “Is it some sort of a secret?”

“No, I guess not,” Hawke shrugged again, effortlessly keeping up with the man’s long stride. “I was born in Tantervale, grew up in Lothering and then spent the last ten years in Kirkwall. But, see, now you’ll ask where _that_ is and the problem is I can’t tell you that.”

 “And why not?”

“Umm… No point of reference?”

“Try Laketown.”

“Well, as I said. South. From Laketown.”

Bard huffed and shook his head. Hawke grinned.

 

As they walked, though, Hawke’s good mood slowly dissipated. Sure, she was going to meet Thorin soon, and had even talked Bard into accompanying her for a while, to lead her through some marshes and make sure she doesn’t waste time by getting lost, but… this town. Under the superficial bustle, it was decrepit. Whoever its Master was, he apparently had no intention or sense to keep the wooden structures from falling apart.

Again Hawke had to purse her lips as memories of Kirkwall rushed through her. She knew very well how easily such people succumbed to the simplest cold, knew how children died of infections and malnourishment in Darktown. Of course, it was not _so_ bad in Laketown, but, having seen it once, Hawke could not unsee the little symptoms masked with lively commotion, no matter where she went.

The walkways were slippery with fish entrails and occasional patches of ice, littered with rags and coils of rope. Boards were missing every here and there. Hawke doubted that the local children never fell into those traps, breaking an ankle or falling into the water. Then again, what with the humid, biting cold coming from the lake, the well-worn clothes and hungry faces of the townspeople, maybe there was little cause for running around playing.

Passing over a canal, Hawke stopped on the crest of the bridge and looked all around her. Bard stopped and turned.

“I don’t understand. What happened to this place?” she wondered.

Bard smirked. “Smaug.”

“But I thought the town was built after the dragon came to the Lonely Mountain?”

“It was. But Smaug destroyed its predecessor, Esgaroth. There was little that the people could salvage, to start a new life in Laketown. And then, Esgaroth had depended on its trade with Dale and Erebor. With those two allies gone, the trade routes dried up, and here we are.” He spread out his hands in a mock welcome. “The only dwelling of Men for hundreds of miles, the closest to the mountain and the only provider of Dorwinion wine to the Elfking. Not much to be proud of, huh?”

Hawke shook her head. A small part of her wondered if perhaps it wouldn’t be better to sit back and let the history run its course, let Smaug come and burn down this rotten offspring of a once proud city. Yes, but the people. She was doing this for the Men of the lake, as much as for Thorin.

With a deep breath, Hawke stepped down from the bridge, and fell into step behind her guide again.

 

“These are the stables?” she asked when Bard stopped at a barn not a hundred yards from the Master’s mansion and pushed open a heavy door. “Why does he keep his horses here? Wouldn’t it make more sense to keep them on the shore, closer to pasture?”

“Master is not overly concerned with what makes sense,” Bard muttered walking into the soothing, warm semi-darkness, Hawke close on his heels. “Anybody here? Fríkla?” he called.

While they waited for the stable master, Hawke walked over to the horses. She ruffled one friendly bay’s mane and stroked its velvety muzzle. The horse snorted, and Hawke felt a stupid grin crawling over her face.

“Such a nice boy you are, yeees, a goooood boy,” Hawke cooed and scratched the beast’s shaggy mane between ears. Horses made her forget the reality — they were so beautiful and intelligent, and good, and fast… Even when they were little more than fat ponies belonging to some asshole. Hawke pursed her lips.

“Fríkla! There you are!” Bard exclaimed, greeting a grouchy old man with long tendrils of greasy grey hair. The stable master threw a glance at Hawke, studying her armour for a minute, and then turned to the bargeman. As if she wasn’t worth talking to, Hawke huffed. Well, his mistake. She opened the stall and went in to check the horse’s feet.

“Look, I know you don’t like me much, but this is a really important matter,” Bard explained. “We need to catch up with the dwarves who left this morning. In fact, if you want those rivers of gold come true, then it’s in your best interests to help us.”

The old man crossed his hands over his chest and frowned at Bard.

“Looks to me, laddie, only yesterday you were out there cawing about the misfortunes those dwarves will bring us. And now here you are, ready to bolt after them in search of gold.”

“I’m not after that cursed gold...”

“Sure you are. Look at that shack you call home and the threadbare aprons of your daughters. I’d say you’ve finally come to your senses if you think to squeeze some extra money out of that adventure, before the wealth of the mountain reaches us all. You will not get the Master’s horses for that, though. He’s not stupid. When the trade is renewed, he will get a good price for those beasts.”

Bard growled and tried once more.

“Fríkla, I can’t tell you how important this is, but it is not about me getting any money out of this. There is no other way for my friend over there to reach Erebor by nightfall, other than on horseback, and I have to show her through the Witchmarsh. I’ll bring one horse back by tomorrow morning, and the other one she will bring back in two days.”

“Then you’re even more stupid that I thought, boy,” the stable master drawled. “I’m not going to risk my neck for your ambitious little plans.”

“Where do you see ambition there, I don’t understand! Why must you think everyone’s out for money? You’ve known me for twenty years, when have I been chasing money?”

“Well, if you had, my daughter would have been still alive!” the stable master roared, losing his composure. “Your roof would be properly thatched and your children warmly dressed for the winter!”

“You’ll never hear anyone in this town saying I’m not taking good care of my children! And as for Gísla, it’s not my fault the Master decided to lock her out of town when that fool Alfrid declared she’s caught pox! She was already frostbitten on her way back from your old house, small wonder she didn’t survive the fever when he finally admitted her inside the gate! And what does her death have to do with my going after the dwarves anyway?!”

Hawke had stood up and was watching the quarrel over the stall door, a frown on her face. She gasped when she saw two more persons enter the stable: one tall and red-haired, with a ridiculous moustache and hat, and the other clad all in black, with a fox-like face and bony hands.

“Did I just hear somebody mention my good assistant?” the tall man asked with an arrogant smile, interrupting the stable master and the bargeman in the middle of their tirade.

Bard turned sharply and bent his head in a greeting.

“Just recognizing his zeal in serving Laketown…”

Ah, so the red-head was the greedy and ignorant Master. Hawke watched her companion through narrowed eyes as he talked to the man. This was something she had never understood or mastered — how could people lie so easily? How could they hide their emotions so quickly, put a tight lid on their anger and just smile as if nothing happened? If she had understood correctly, Master of Laketown had left him a widower, and still the bargeman showed him respect and deference. Adding this little fact to what she had witnessed on her way here, Hawke saw red.

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’re introduced, though I must say I disagree with my friend’s statement here,” she said coolly, closing the stall door behind her and resting the point of her staff on the floor. “My name is Hawke, and I came to Laketown with the aim of joining Thorin Oakenshield’s company. Master Fríkla here refused to lend us two horses for our common goal, and then it was implied that your… assistant blatantly misinterpreted the symptoms of a well-known winter malady, causing death of a good woman, mother of three.”

Bard pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head, while the fox-face snarled and lunged for Hawke. The taller man caught him by the collar like a dog, and smiled at Hawke beatifically.

“Ah, yes, that was an unfortunate misunderstanding, if I remember correctly. Alas, it was years ago, and my memory is not what it used to be. Let us not dwell on the sadness of the past. There is evil in this world, Mistress Hawke, and it’s not for us mortal men to oppose the wheel of fortune. The only thing we can do is endure and help those who look up to us for guidance.”

“Who are you helping?” Hawke spat. “These people who are cold and half-starved? I only passed through your city twice, but I’d have to be blind to not see the poverty and the despair! How can you allow that to happen, being the leader of these people, while you yourself walk around in furs and velvet?”

The smile disappeared from the Master’s face, but still he attempted to remain calm.

“Mistress Hawke, you are obviously a stranger to these lands, otherwise you would have known what difficulties have befallen our courageous people...”

“Difficulties like incompetent leadership? Locked water gates so people can’t get out to fish or hunt? Importing wine from Dorwinion instead of food and clothing? Relying on your old allies and stupid legends-“

“Mistress Hawke! I am appalled at such wrongful and misinformed-“

“-to bring you gold and fortune instead of working for them yourself? Half of your city’s standing on rotten piles, and yet you do nothing! You build a _stable_ in the middle of the town, though it serves no purpose on the lake-“

“What would you know of the hard decisions that I have had to make to-“

“Oh, I know something about hard decisions! I’ve been fighting slavery, prejudice and exploitation in a town ten times larger than this!  For years I’d been keeping it from plunging into chaos! I know the likes of you, Master, and there’s only one word for it — slaver!”

"I will not tolerate such accusations, lass!” the Master sputtered as Bard groaned, raking his hand through his hair and scrunching up his face. He was probably wishing to be anywhere else but here, considering that he still had to live in this town after Hawke left. Well, unfortunately, the time of complacency was over.

 “You know what, Bard?” she said, turning to him and not the least bit appeased by the painful expression in her companion’s face. “I think getting on our way is the best we can do for this town. To ride for the Lonely Mountain and hope the dragon has not woken yet.”  She cast an angry glance at the Master who was sputtering and could call the guards any minute. His little snake of an assistant had already slithered off somewhere, and Hawke was afraid they’d try to arrest her. She didn’t have time for such foolishness.

Stepping back, she reached for a saddle that was hung on the door of an empty stall.

“Hurry up, Bard! Fríkla, give him a decent horse! We’re taking two of your horses, Master, and we’ll bring them back as soon as possible. I think it’s the _least_ you could do to ensure that your dear town is not burned down to ashes…”

“Wait a minute! No, you can’t take my horses!” the Master exclaimed, standing in her way and trying to yank the saddle out of her grasp. “I don’t care what you think you are doing, they are mine! Guards! Guards!”

That piece of selfish prattle must have been the last drop in the not-so-large cup of Hawke’s patience. She let the saddle go suddenly, and the Master stumbled backwards.

In one fluid motion, rehearsed to perfection over years of incessant fighting, she struck her staff against the floor, letting sparks flow around her, touched her temple, concentrated and _hit_.

Bard staggered on his feet, staring at her wide-eyed and shouting something; Fríkla collapsed on the floor. The Master fell backwards, skidded a few yards and crashed into a stall door, but already Hawke was casting again, the blade smeared with red and a thin red gash on her left forearm. Clenching her teeth and summoning the frustrated, righteous anger pent up inside her, she poured it all out, washing it over the despicable man in a crashing wave, and he shrieked as if his soul was being eaten out by a demon.

Good, Hawke thought with grim satisfaction, making another, deeper gash on her arm. She swung her staff around and cast, a blood-red cloud erupting from her staff and swirling around the Master, tiny droplets condensing into wiry tendrils, and then his cries died down and he sat up, blinking confusedly.

“You’re letting us go,” she said, looking the man in the eye. “We’ll be allowed to leave the city, and,” here she levelled her staff at Master’s head, intensifying the red hue of the spell, “neither you, nor your guards or other subjects shall go near Bard’s house or family. That is an order, slave!”

Master nodded and stood up. He let the saddle fall from his limp hands, and then he slowly walked out of the stable, hobbling like a broken puppet. Hawke followed him with her gaze, and then snapped back to Bard.

The bargeman was kneeling near the collapsed stable master, face pale, eyes wide as saucers and a hand clasped over his chest.

“Let's go, Bard,” Hawke reminded him, picking up the saddle and bringing out her horse. “Evening is coming, and the Lonely Mountain is not getting nearer if we sit here…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thanks to iscatterthemintimeandspace for going over and checking!


	6. Chapter 6

“ _What in the name of all Morgoth’s nightmares was THAT, Hawke_?” Bard shouted at her the moment they stopped to catch their breath on the shore. “That was some unholy devilry you did back there! It’s unnatural! How can you perform such… such acts of utter sacrilege-”

Gasping for air, Hawke glanced back to check if they were safely out of range. At the other end of the bridge, the shore-side gate swung shut with a resounding boom. Apparently the Master had returned to his senses already. Or maybe his little weasel was showing initiative. Didn’t matter now anyway…

“-and with your own blood! How… How do you expect me to help you when I don’t even know _what_ you are??”

“That’s… blood magic,” Hawke panted, hunching down over her horse’s neck. Black spots were swimming in front of her vision.

Hawke closed her eyes and took deep breaths, trying to ignore Bard’s shouting for the moment. She had over-exerted herself. She hadn’t slept and eaten in a while, and there were no lyrium or health potions in this barbaric country. She cursed under her breath. And to think that the Chasind were considered wild and uncivilized…

“I can’t believe I let you inside my house, that I left my children alone with you! And you repay my good will with what??” The bargeman gestured at the locked gate, his voice full of shock, rage and pain even as he continued to shout at her. “I’m now stuck with you outside of Laketown, when my children remain _inside_ , and the Master will probably never allow me to return! Valar only know what he will do to them! What do you think I should do? How should I live? What should Bain, Sigrid and Tilda eat tomorrow and the day after?”

“Calm down, Bard,” Hawke muttered. All will be well. She knew that some way or another all had to be well in the end. “Tauriel and the dwarves stayed with them, your children are not alone. And the Master or his lackeys will not disturb them — that was a direct order. It will hold for weeks.”

Bard stared at her in disbelief.

“You really think I will trust my children to a bunch of adventuring dwarves and two elves I had never even seen before today? You think _that_ is going to calm me down after what you did back there in the stable?”

“They’re good people, Bard, as am I. Perhaps my methods are somewhat… unsavoury, but I have never used them for ill purposes, only to protect.”

“You bewitched the Master! Fríkla might have split his head, from the way he dropped on the floor! They might not be very nice people, but how is that _protection_ , Hawke?”

“Alright, Bard, I’m sorry!” she cried, raising her hands in annoyed surrender. “I’m sorry that I decided that saving your whole town is more important than the sensibilities of a pompous nobleman! And I’m sorry that the stable master hit his head on the floor! And that the gate was shut and you can’t get back tonight! Does that cover your grievances?”

Bard opened his mouth and pointed his finger at her, ready to shout some more, then narrowed his eyes and growled. He was far from happy, and Hawke could understand that, but she also needed him to concentrate on getting through the marsh. The sky was overcast, but Hawke estimated that it was a couple of hours past midday. They were quickly running out of time. And, apart from that, she really believed in Tauriel, that the elf would keep the bargeman’s family safe.

Muttering something under his breath, Bard turned and nudged his horse forward.

“I will help you, since I cannot return to Laketown anyway,” he said over his shoulder. “We’ll get my hunting bow from the forest, and then I’ll lead you through the marshes and the ruin of Dale. Let’s hope that by that time, the Master has calmed down sufficiently to let me back inside.  And in the meantime you’re going to tell me _everything_.”

Shaking her head in mute disagreement, Hawke spurred her horse to follow her guide. It was not going to be as simple as Bard hoped. It was going to be one bloody complicated piece of storytelling, and an equally demanding task ahead of them.

 

*

 

The elf captain sat perched on a stool by the window farthest from the kitchen table and was twisting her hair in a tight and complicated braid. She worried.  The bargeman’s eldest, Sigrid, was sitting on another stool facing her and patching some shirts, and the girl’s anxious glances at the door did nothing to unwind the tight coil of anxiousness in Tauriel’s chest.

She could hear the dwarves on the opposite side of the room, arguing whether they should follow their leader now that Kili was better. Tauriel absolutely refused to look at them. She had healed the archer — her job was done. And nothing had happened, really. That she could perfectly recall the expression of his eyes or the pattern of his breathing as he relaxed into healing sleep only signified the well-known fact that elves had perfect vision, hearing and memory; and the unfortunate occurrence that, after passing out on the table, she had woken up with a heavy, calloused hand in her hair signified nothing at all.

In the end of the day, she was an elf, and he was a dwarf. They were created _different_. The very notion that there could be… It was absurd. It was so completely impossible, that she had to be out of her mind to even worry about it. Really, she should forget the whole incident: after all she was a responsible and well-educated adult, the Captain of the Mirkwood Guard, while he was… Tauriel frowned. She wasn’t even sure what he was. He had a worried mother and an elder brother, and he used to work as a caravan escort back in the West. Of course, he was a bright lad, with sharp eyes and a quick smile, a most vexing talent for bluffing, and a wonderful, deep, expressive voice. But there could never be anything more, and she was too young for such things anyway.

Alright, where did that come from? What _things_? _What was going on in her head_?

She was being completely ridiculous.

Shortening the braid by partially wrapping it into a bun at the back of her head and fixing it with some pins that Sigrid had given her, the elf captain rolled her shoulders and leaned closer to the smoky glass. She had enough _real_ problems to worry about.

For example, what was keeping Legolas so long? Hadn’t she given him clear and very specific instructions to only scout and then return immediately to Laketown? Had he again rushed off somewhere on his own, self-reliant as always? Did he honestly think that nothing would ever happen to him, just because he’s Thranduil’s son and the best archer in Mirkwood? What if something _had_ happened to her prince?

And now that she thought of it, was he actually _her prince_ anymore? What if Thranduil never forgave her impulsive decision? What if her King banished her from Mirkwood?

She hadn’t really thought it through, had she?

If she could, would she go back in time and do things differently?

Those were some very important questions she should be thinking about, not… dark brown eyes and heavy, warm hands.

Tauriel bit her lip and glanced down at her own pale, slender hands resting on her thighs. She flexed her fingers, watching the tendons move under the soft, gentle skin, pulled them into fists, contemplating the ridge of her knuckles, the veins at her wrists. Deceptively fragile and beautiful, those hands were a weapon, designed by Ilúvatar and tempered in six hundred years of guard duty. Those hands were made to fight and protect, not sit idly in her lap.

If she could go back in time, she would do it all over again. Even if her payment was banishment, she couldn’t regret her choice. She had saved a life today, and perhaps she could still do something for her forest too, maybe go to Lórien and get _their_ help with those spiders from Dol Guldur. Maybe she could even live somewhere in the northern parts of the forest, upstream from the Halls. Mirkwood was large, and her King didn’t know everything; just look how far the dwarves had gone before Legolas’ patrol had discovered them.

But first things first. She wouldn’t be a very good Guard’s Captain, if she left three children unattended in a town where she expected an orc attack and then a dragon. Where was Bard anyway?

“Sigrid? Do you know where your _Ada_ and Hawke could have gone to get those horses?” she asked.

The girl huffed and rubbed her forehead. “Master’s stables. Only he has horses, and… I don’t like that Da went there…”

“Is it dangerous?” Tauriel wondered.

“No, but… My grandfather works there, and they always argue…”

Polite as usual, Tauriel didn’t pry. She thought she knew where the stables were, and if she was going to the shore to look for Legolas, she might as well pass by there and see what was keeping the bargeman; Hawke, she assumed, had already left for Erebor.

Decided, the Captain stood up and stretched. The coiled braid felt strange, and she shook her head a few times to get used to its weight. She had to agree that it was practical. In fact, everyone had been telling her to do something with that ridiculously long hair, before she hangs herself on a branch or some orc steps on it. So she was really just being sensible.

And, since she was being sensible, she was leaving. Her primary objective had been to kill the orcs passing through her forest, and that was exactly what she was going to do the moment she found Legolas. And then they would see about her return and whether her King was willing to forgive her.

Checking the lacing on her leather vest and righting her overdress, she frowned, hit by a strange thought. If it turns out that she’s not banished, was _she_ willing to _return_? If her King persists on non-involvement, would she be content with her actual contribution in the fight against darkness?

Passing her glance over the kitchen and pointedly ignoring Kili, she met his elder brother’s eye. She studied the concern in his face, the initial frown and the unsure, small smile replacing it in gratitude for what she had done for his brother.

At that moment, Tauriel knew that her answer was a resounding ‘No’. The Captain wasn’t done yet.

Men, dwarves, elves — they were all in this together now, even if all three leaders of the three nations were acting quite foolishly right now. But then again, she herself was being foolish to one brown-eyed archer. She had been feeling his burning gaze on her from the moment Fili got him up and sitting on a chair, and Tauriel’s only saving grace was that he couldn’t walk over to her. Yet.

Turning back to the window, she started to lace up her arm bracers.

 “Is there a Guard in Laketown? Apart from those lounging at the shore-gate?” she asked Sigrid.

The girl shook her head, putting down her needlework with a sigh.

“Only those. Da says there are no guards in Laketown worth their salt.”

“Hm. Any militia?”

“Well, no. Weapons are not allowed, only the guardsmen can use them. Da has to keep his bow in the forest when he goes hunting. He keeps even most of his tools hidden, in case somebody decides they are weapons.”

Bracers tied, Tauriel leaned on the windowsill and peered out.

“Lady Tauriel, why are you asking about guards and militia?” the girl asked suspiciously.

“Just thinking about what Hawke said,” the elf murmured, staring out at the hundreds of buildings, all with thatched or wooden shingle roofs. If Hawke failed… _Could_ the wizard kill Smaug? And did Tauriel trust her in the first place? There was something about the woman that set Tauriel on edge, but she couldn’t understand what it was. Maybe it was her magic, but in the end it was not the most important thing. The important thing was that she and her spells were somewhere else, while Tauriel and her daggers were here, in a wooden town possibly doomed to perish tonight.

“Sigrid, please call your brother and sister,” she asked gently. “We need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The credit for conditionals and general anti-confusion debugging go to iscatterthemintimeandspace :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be mixing things from the book and the movies. Since I'm mixing all that also with a _video game_ , I humbly hope that nobody has any major objections... I also apologise for a small DA inaccuracy: I've been describing Hawke's staff as Torch of Falon'Din and now it appears as a cold staff. But let us believe that Thedas is a vast and rich environment where, over the period of ten years, a mage _can_ find a powerful cold staff with a branched top and bladed bottom :D
> 
> Revised and corrected by iscatterthemintimeandspace. A deep bow goes to her and all who left comments or kudos — you make my day :)

The fragrant, cool forest air seemed to improve Bard’s outlook on life. He had calmed down from his previous fit of rage and now sat up straighter in the saddle, watching the firs with sharp eyes, turning his head at the smallest noise in the undergrowth. There was something wolf-like about the man’s concentration.

As they reached a particularly wild thicket of young spruces, he got off his horse and motioned for Hawke to hold it for a moment. He disappeared in the trees, silent as a shadow.

The mage stretched in the saddle and looked around. It was beautiful here, even with all that condensed fog dripping from the branches and trying to get behind her collar. The air smelled of fallen leaves and mushrooms. Hawke closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Even if she was tired, she revelled in being alive, in feeling the saddle creaking beneath her, the warmth of the horse’s neck. She still remembered how bleak the colours had been when she was dead, how simple and monotonous their thoughts. She had sat with Thorin and Snape for countless times in that folk pub, and she could never remember drinking anything else than vodka; dark Trappist beer for Thorin and whiskey for Snape. She remembered lamenting her losses and whining about her mistakes, and torturing herself with guilt, but somehow it had been just words. Only when she arrived in Laketown did she start to feel the emotional fallout of her decisions.

Eyes still closed, Hawke considered the possibility that it had been some sort of a _wrong_ afterlife. Its bleakness did resemble Fade a bit, but, if she thought harder, she remembered also flashes of light, rare moments of beauty and friendship. They laughed sometimes. They quarrelled about whose turn it was to pay. They lounged around the table, puzzling over the meaning of life.

They constantly complained about the music, but again and again they met in the same place. One night Thorin had wondered why he hadn’t returned to stone or at least gone to the Halls of Healing, and Hawke had proposed that if her Maker had abandoned his people, then maybe Mahal had done the same to his. Thorin had argued that his god was not so fickle, and Hawke had shocked him with some lightning. Then Snape had told them about the Catholic Purgatory, and they had all drunk to the idea of soul purification after death.

Hawke smiled at the memory. It was good to remember her strange companions, to reaffirm in her mind the task she had set out for herself. In a way, she missed them, but it was a light longing, a promise and a consolation that reached out to her across time and space. The mage breathed in deep and listened to the whispers of the wind in the leaves, the dripping moisture. It calmed her. She was in this strange land, and something in its air was healing the gaping wound in her heart, the tragedy and blood, and the crippling treachery that was Kirkwall. She just had to keep putting one foot in front of the other and not think about it too much.

She opened her eyes when she heard Bard coming out of the thicket.

“Look,” he said, tossing her a quiver. Hawke caught it reflexively.

“Yes, you said we were coming for your bow. I suppose that means also arrows. Why are you showing me these?” she wondered as she pulled out one arrow and fingered its black metal point.

“That’s my lucky arrow. I suppose if your magic fails, then we try this.”

“It won’t fail. But what do you mean, we try this? You’re coming with me into the mountain?” Hawke looked up at the bargeman.

The man shrugged. “It’s my family who’ll come under the fire if you do something wrong. I’d like to see that you don’t.”

Hawke gave him a level look. That man didn't cease to surprise her: a bargeman, bowman, ferryman, smuggler, poacher… A survivor, with a sharp mind to weigh the risks and opportunities at a moment’s notice, and to adapt his decisions as needed. Hawke smiled and inspected the arrow once more.

“I suppose I could cast some cold spell on it. And, to be honest, I _had_ been a little concerned about facing that dragon alone. Normally I would have three companions with me; two other mages, and a warrior, to keep the dragon occupied at close range.”

Bard narrowed his eyes at her.

“You’re unbelievable. You really have done this enough times to come up with a set of guidelines? So how does this work, Hawke?” he motioned at the staff slung across her back, “What are you really?”

The mage sighed and looked up in the sky.

“Can we do this while we ride?” she asked.

“Of course. There’s no galloping in the forest or the Witchmarsh anyway.”

As Bard got up on his horse and started to lead them back towards the coast, Hawke pondered where to start. She couldn’t lie to him, because she didn’t know enough of this world to build her lies upon. And continuing to avoid the subject wouldn’t work either, since the bargeman was so determined to get the truth from her. Giving up, she smirked.

“Alright, Bard,” she said to his back as he was leading the way through the trees. “The cold, harsh truth is that I’m not from this world. You won’t find Kirkwall or Tantervale, or Lothering anywhere in Middle-earth.”

“What?” Bard turned in the saddle and looked at her in confusion, as if he had misheard.

“I died, Bard. Bandits attacked my company, and I was run through with a spear. And then I found myself in the afterlife and met Thorin Oakenshield.”

“Now that’s an obvious lie,” Bard grumbled. “Any child could tell you how impossible that is. What I don’t understand is why you even tried.”

“Tried what?” Hawke asked in confusion.

“To lie to me, that’s what. Don’t they teach you about the nature of the universe down South? In the Halls of Mandos, dwarves have a different hall than men or elves. Since you’re obviously no dwarf, there is no way you could meet Thorin Oakenshield after you die. And besides, he’s not even dead in the first place.”

Hawke could only shrug.

“Yeah, Thorin was also surprised about where he wound up. I can’t explain it, Bard. I don’t know where _I_ was supposed to be, as, according to my Chantry, all maleficars and other such infidels are bound to endless wanderings in some sort of _nothingness_ , but it’s clear that there are no accounts whatsoever of meeting somebody from another world either in the Fade, or in dreams, or in death. There’s nothing to suggest such thing even in Brother Genitivi’s writings, and _that_ guy had travelled and interviewed pretty much every corner of Thedas. Maybe elves used to know something, but they’re a pretty lost bunch of people nowadays.”

“Elves? Lost? What kind of strange elves do you have there in the South?”

“I’m telling you, Bard, I’m not from the South of Middle-earth! I’m from the South of Thedas. And yes, our elves are a sad, downtrodden lot who have forgotten the majority of their language and culture. They survive in city alienages, where they’re freely spat upon, or in the few wild places of Thedas, where they’re freely starving. Then, of course, there’s a whole bunch of them in Tevinter Imperium, where they are slaves, and a smaller contingent in Seheron and Rivain, where they are part of the Qunari converts.”

“That’s… You’re crazy, Hawke. You’re imagining all those things.”

The mage sighed in frustration and shot a lightning bolt past the bargeman’s ear. The man even jumped in the saddle.

“What was that?!” he shouted, holding the side of his head and turning around to look at her.

Hawke smirked. “Nothing, Bard, just imagination.”

The man narrowed his eyes at her. “What else can you do?” he demanded.

“Apart from lightning bolts, mind blasts and mind control spells? I can do fire balls. A whole fire storm even. Then I can do a variety of frost spells. Elemental weapons, which, I think, I mentioned already, in connection to your arrows. A paralyzing prison and a chain lightning, which is really convenient against smaller critters. And… erm… a couple more blood spells, which look really nasty but are nevertheless extremely useful.”

Bard rubbed his face and turned his back to her once more. The horses resumed their steady pace towards the lake, picking their way over the roots and fallen trees, and Hawke sighed. At least her guide hadn’t run away screaming.

Considering how rare magic apparently was in Middle-earth, probably she should be more careful with her power. Although…  No, scratch that, she just needed to get the job done. Preferably without leaving a mile-wide trail in the history, but if it got the dragon killed, the people of Laketown safe and Thorin’s folk settled in their mountain without any needless bloodshed, then so be it. And so what if her raw, primal magic was something they frowned upon? It _worked_. It was unsightly, and scary, and vile, and maybe in the end she really would have to roam the Fade for ever, unaccepted and unforgiven by her Maker, but it got things done. And there were some things in Middle-earth that _desperately_ needed doing.

“Alright, so you’re saying that you died and then came here from another world,” Bard interrupted her grim reflection. “Let’s assume I believe you. Then what are you doing here?”

Hawke took a moment to gather her thoughts. How could she conveniently summarize those countless nights of drinking and listening to Thorin go on about his countless regrets?

“Imagine you were at a crossroads, and you could go anywhere. You could even go back in time and change things,” she said. “I think that is what happened. We died and found ourselves at such crossroads, and we… We talked. Thorin said he made some serious mistakes in retaking the Lonely Mountain, and he wanted to change that. But he couldn’t go back himself, so I came in his place.”

 “Wait, so you’re saying that this has already happened before? And that you know what will happen in the future?” Bard asked.

“Yes and no,” Hawke sighed. “Thorin told me what happened last time, and I guess it would have happened again, but then I came to Middle-earth, and already things are changing. I don’t know precisely how, because, for example, Thorin didn’t know that two elves had followed him from the Woodland Realm. I guess they would have reached Laketown today by nightfall, and Tauriel would have healed Kili even so, but it probably would have been harder because his injury would have got worse. Instead, I pushed them, and they arrived by noon today, and Kili is safe already.”

“And then you did some… blood magic on the Master and got me locked outside of the town, with all the gates sealed shut. How does that change things?”

Hawke shrugged.

“I don’t know. _Thorin_ didn’t know, because he wasn’t there. You apparently showed up later at the gates of the Lonely Mountain and said you killed the dragon, after it razed Laketown and burned it to ashes.”

“ _What?_ ” Bard whipped around in the saddle and stared at Hawke.

“Well, that’s what people said,” Hawke explained with a helpless shrug. “I don’t know how you did it. Maybe you had help, maybe you didn’t. Maybe it was a lucky coincidence. I don’t even know if you could do it again this time.”

“ _I_ … killed Smaug??”

“Bard — yes. You killed Smaug. But you did it while he was destroying your town, and I don’t know what happened to your children. So this time we’re doing things differently. We’re either stopping the dwarves from waking him up in the first place, or we’re dealing with that scaly beast _before_ he reaches Laketown.”

Bard shook his head, stunned beyond words.

“Look, you do have a lucky arrow, right?” Hawke tried to calm him down. “An arrow that never misses.”

The man nodded, still in shock. “Been in my family for generations,” he muttered. “My grandfather said the point was forged by the King Under the Mountain himself.”

“See?” Hawke grinned, hoping to cheer him up. “It’s a legendary arrow! It’s meant for great deeds! And you _are_ the descendant of Girion, Lord of Dale, right?”

Bard’s head shot up and he pierced Hawke with a sharp glance.

“How did you know? Are the townspeople still talking about what the Master said yesterday?”

Hawke shook her head.

“I haven’t had exactly the chance to chat with your neighbours, have I? Besides, most of the time, I was with you.”

“Then… how?”

The mage raked a hand through her short, black hair and chuckled.

“I’ve been listening to Thorin more times than I can count, Bard. It’s amazing how chatty that stubborn, prideful dwarf becomes after a night of drinking. I bet you wouldn’t even recognize him. Have you ever heard him laugh?”

“I haven’t even seen him smile,” Bard muttered, nudging his horse on, now that they had left the forest and reached the path that wound around the lake and would lead them to the Lonely Mountain.

“Pity,” Hawke said. “He has a nice smile when he manages to not think about… well, about all that is bound to happen unless we make it not to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a sample of what Hawke & company had had to put up with:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xdutrgbMNYs  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uRxBu11US88
> 
> I see it so clearly: Snape cringing while Hawke and Thorin start slowly bobbing their heads, confused, surprised grins on their faces... ^^


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise: a Kili chapter!  
> I guess this is my favorite part this far. There are such interesting things in his head...

Sitting between Fili and Bofur at the table where he had recently almost died and sipping _yet another_ herbal drought, Kili couldn’t tear his eyes from the red-headed elf in front of him.

She was real. She was here.

How, in the name of Mahal, he had ended up in such unbelievable situation, he could not fathom, and he couldn’t even decide if it was his luck or misfortune that the elf had not yet killed him for his impertinence.

He knew he was being ridiculous. He fully expected her to start laughing at him any moment now, or his brother to cuff him on the head for his foolishness. That was what usually happened when he tried to make a girl smile at him. As the youngest son of a not exactly rich family (though with good name and future claims), not exactly handsome (too thin and beardless), and not with an exactly reputable choice of weapon (only a coward would prefer archery over melee), he couldn’t say he had been a very popular guy in the Blue Mountains. He had friends, of course. Lots of friends, both lads and lasses that loved him for his easy-going nature and jokes, it’s just that the girls never looked at him like _that_.

But then _this_ girl had. This fiery-haired creature of steel and stardust, who was thin as a reed, beardless and almost a foot taller than him, had smiled right back at him through the prison bars, and even if he had answered to her about the rune stone just because he was bored out of his head and could not forget her teasing, that _smile_ , that curious, gentle, tentative smile...  He still could not believe it.

“Kili, would you listen?” his brother kicked his foot from the left, breaking his train of thoughts, which were not very organized to begin with.

“I don’t see how we can save everyone, lass,” grumbled Oin. “After supporting Thorin, the Master will not take our warnings seriously. He didn’t take Bard seriously, and we all know the man had a point. Unfortunately.”

“And Bain said all water-gates are locked,” Tauriel sighed, slouching in the chair and looking everywhere except at Kili.

“Yes, and the guards will open them only under an explicit instruction from the Master,” said Sigrid.

“And he won’t give that,” concluded Tilda.

Fili sighed. “Where is Bard? He smuggled us into the town, I’m sure he’d have some ideas how to get people out. And where is that Hawke, by the way?”

“Who’s Hawke?” Kili asked.

Everyone looked at him and shrugged, except Tauriel, who got up and started pacing the kitchen.

“Let’s go point by point,” she said. “Can we get Master’s support for getting people out of the town? No. Can we instead get his tacit support? Let him blame this on Bard or people’s initiative, or something, as long as he agrees to open the gates?”

Bain and Sigrid exchanged glances.

“Not likely,” Bain said. “Most of all he likes to be in control. He will not allow any rumours to the contrary.”

“Alright.” Tauriel stopped for a moment, and then continued her pacing. Resting his chin in hand, Kili contemplated her new braid. It was downright mesmerizing how it swished across her back like a pendulum: to and fro, to and fro…

Bofur suddenly poked him in the ribs from the right and smirked.

“Can we open the water-gates _without_ authorization?” the miner cheekily asked the elf captain.

Tauriel stopped and _almost_ looked at Kili. Then she turned to Bain again. “Can we?” she asked.

The boy looked at his sister again and bit his lip.

“There is this hidden passage that Da uses when he goes hunting at night,” he said. “It’s between Old Radi’s warehouse and Mila’s tavern. One section of the metal lattice opens to let through a boat, and the warehouse hides it from view until it cannot be seen from the shore-gate in darkness. The tavern masks the splashing of the oars. I know where the key is. But you can’t lead out the whole town through that one gap!”

“Still better than nothing,” Oin pointed out. “The main problem, however, would be the panic. People would be running around like headless chickens.”

“Then we need to tell them to prepare themselves,” Tauriel said, clasping her hands behind the back and resuming her pacing. “Get them to pack their things. Food, clothes, tools, blankets, pots and pans. Everything they might need to survive and rebuild. Tell them to prepare their boats and to go to… I’d like to believe that the Master _will_ open the water-gates if the dragon really comes…” she muttered.

“Alright, back to that later,” she said. “If Men of Laketown refuse to prepare themselves, believing that Smaug will just roll over and conveniently die at the sight of Thorin Oakenshield, then tell them it’s just a precaution.”

“Tell them that all their neighbours and their mothers are packing too,” Kili added. “That usually helps if you want a bunch of people to do something that may or may not be sanctioned by the authorities.” Tauriel abruptly stopped as if she had walked into a wall, then squared her shoulders and took a deep breath.

“Kili’s right,” she said, passing her glance over all who were present, except Kili, of course. The archer sighed in growing annoyance.

“I think you two, Bain and Sigrid, would be best suited for this task, since you’re both from here and you know the people,” the Captain continued. The children nodded.

“Tilda will stay here with Oin and start packing. Oin will know what is needed at this time of the year, and Tilda probably knows where it is stored.” The little girl nodded excitedly, and the healer grumbled something about the thin hides of Men.

“Fili and Bofur — I need you to go to the stables and see what’s keeping Bard. And see if Hawke is still there with him. Help them if they need anything. If they are not at the stables, try to find out at the shore-gate whether they are still in Laketown.” The dwarves nodded at the well-worded request.

“Everyone will have three hours, after which they report back here. We’ll see what has happened with Bard, and, if everything is fine, Bain, Sigrid, Tilda and Oin get another three hours for their tasks. After that you all wait for the nightfall, take the boat and leave the town for the next three days, dragon or no dragon. Is everything clear?”

Pushing back their chairs and getting ready to go, everyone nodded. Oin bent down and started to inspect the kitchen cabinets, while Tilda bolted up to the attic to get the warmest blankets. Others went to get their coats and scarves, to wrap themselves tighter in the oversized clothing that Bard and the Master had given them the previous night. They were murmuring among themselves and discussing their tasks. Everyone just seemed to assume that Kili, being injured, was staying in the house, and that the Captain was also staying, to oversee everything. Kili crossed his arms over his chest and bent down his head, hiding his face behind his messy hair. He knew he was slow and useless right now, a burden that the company couldn’t afford carrying. Thorin had known that, and Tauriel also knew it.

As everyone was leaving, Fili turned in the door and glanced back at his brother, where he remained sitting at the table and gloomily staring at his empty mug of tea.

“You’ll be alright?” Fili asked.

Kili snorted, raising his head and forcing a smirk on his lips. “I’ll be fine, brother, don’t worry,” he said. “She’s just an elf, not an ogre.”

Fili laughed and winked at him. “ _No question_ ,” he quipped in Khuzdul.

The archer frowned at his brother’s retreating back, wondering where the sudden wish to launch the mug at his brother’s blonde, empty head had come from. Then again, he _was_ in a quite rotten mood.

“How is your leg?” the Captain suddenly asked after everyone had left, jerking Kili’s head up with her question. She was standing in the middle of the kitchen, hugging herself as if she was cold, and finally, _finally_ she was looking at him, _finally_ she was addressing him directly, even though her hazel eyes seemed shuttered and distant.

Kili gritted his teeth and glared at her, hurt by her coldness. Even after a dwarf lass had dismissed him with some version of ‘oh, Kili, you’re so funny’, she’d still show up in the pub the next day, bragging about her craft as always and getting her beard full of ale same as all his other friends. The problem with elf maids was that apparently they just shut people out, completely and forever, for one unwanted glance or touch, or stupid joke. Why couldn’t she just tell him to back off and then return to normal? As a friend, or whoever she had been back there on the staircase in front of his cell. It would, of course, be very, very hard for Kili, but he could do it. He’d had lots of practice doing exactly that back in the Blue Mountains, and anything would be better than this cold avoidance.

It was so _unfair_ that Kili wanted to scream at the elf. He felt such resentment welling up in his chest as he had never felt before, and he thought of saying something rude or not answering at all, but then suddenly she made a step forward, the shutters fell, and she was his Tauriel of white starlight again. She slowly shook her head, holding his gaze and mouthing something. _Don’t lie to me_ , Kili read on her lips, and all the fight went out of him.

“Hurts,” he muttered. “I can walk but not very fast.”

“We have almost three hours,” she said looking out a window. “We’ll go to every water-gate and convince the guards to open them after a specific signal. A bell toll or something.”

Surprised, Kili sat back and raked a hand through his hair.

“How are you going to do that?” he asked.

Tauriel laughed and nervously rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know — you tell me,” she said. “My only asset in such dealings would be the lie that I’m the Elvenking’s favourite official, his Captain of the Guard.”

“But you are, aren’t you?” Kili asked, confused.

Tauriel bit her lip and hugged her shoulders again. “I don’t know. I left the Woodland Realm against my King’s wishes.”

“Why? It’s your home!”

The elf gave him a level look, and Kili grew even more confused. He remembered vividly with what love she had spoken of her forest, of the stars that one could see from the treetops, of all things green and growing. Why would she leave all that behind? For _him_?

“Surely you’re not here because of me, are you?” he gasped. “I owe you my life, and I will be forever grateful to you, but you didn’t have to do it, Tauriel. I’m just one dwarf, and I’m not worth your forest. I’m not worth your King’s wrath.”

In a few fluid steps, the elf was beside him, kneeling on the floor and putting her hand on his knee. She looked up at him, her hazel eyes wide as saucers, and vehemently shook her head.

“You are worth all that and more, Kili! Every life is sacred, and I am a guard, it’s my _job_ to protect! It’s what I _am_ , and it is not for my King to decide _how_ I do it. Yes, I love him, as I love my forest, as I love the streams and the ancient oaks, but there were twenty orcs pursuing you down the Forest River, and my King had ordered to shut all the gates, to shut the Realm against the darkness growing in the world.”

“I could not remain inside, Kili. I could not sit by and watch as my forest wilts with the poison from Dol Guldur, as animals flee it, as birds drop dead from the branches. I could not sit by and watch as orcs walk my paths, drink from my rivers and shoot my prisoners. I don’t want my life to be a frozen memory, a precious gem locked away in a chest. It is a river, Kili. My life flows from the highest peaks of the Misty Mountains, and it flows towards the sea. Whatever bends I make, my destiny is always the same, it’s beyond the sea. And it will be beautiful, when I get there.”

“You,” she continued, patting his knee and wiping away the tears that had started to roll down her cheeks, “you dwarves are a tree. Your roots run deep, and you take your strength from the earth. You stand for hundreds of years, and always you are stronger together than alone. But then you die, and you return to the earth, to give sustenance to the new acorns growing in your place. You live again and again, and there is nothing you should fear. There will always be a new life for you, Kili.”

Kili stared at her pale, teary face, paralyzed by her hand, by her side pressing to his shin. He couldn’t breathe.

“ _Amabel_ ,” he whispered, chest impossibly tight. “You really are not from this world, are you?”

He carefully reached out his hand, like trying to calm a timid doe ready to bolt at any moment. She closed her eyes, tears shimmering in her lashes, and leaned into his touch. Kili’s heart skipped a beat.

He gently brushed her jawline with the back of his hand, wondering at her soft, smooth skin, lightly touched her earlobe and brushed away her tears with his thumb. She was more delicate to him than the finest jewels of Erebor, more precious than Nauglamír, and most probably he had no right at all to sit here pawing at her beautiful face with his calloused, clumsy hands. But there was also steel and fire in her, an unbending core of battle fury and righteousness, and Kili desperately hoped that it was alright, that she would stay and not reject his simple caresses.

Tauriel caught his hand and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his wrist. Mahal, preserve us, Kili prayed, powerless to stop the tears welling up in his own eyes. His fool heart was so full of wonder, joy and pure, complete, unadulterated love that he was surprised his chest had not burst open yet. He put his other hand on Tauriel’s braided copper hair, and she bent her head to his lap, tightly hugging him around the waist. Her thin shoulders quaked, and Kili thought that she, too, was crying, but whether of joy or loss, he could not know.

He could just stroke her hair and hold her, and try to remember to breathe.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _amabel_ — dream of all dreams (Khuzd.)
> 
> Revised and checked by iscatterthemintimeandspace!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay, but I was stuck. Apparently it's a circle — the longer you take figuring things out, the harder it becomes to get back to writing, so you delay some more. But now I'm back with some new headcanon (will probably have to edit some chapter notes and promises hee hee), with a more or less clear layout for 6 more chapters (that, knowing my tendency towards tactical ramblings, will probably become 10...) and that is still not including BOFA... :)
> 
> Thanks to iscatterthemintimeandspace for being truthful about the first sad attempt at a draft! :D

There were two guards at the eastern water-gate, leaning on the mossy, half-rotten posts that flanked the exit to the lake. One was picking his nose. The other was dozing, face turned towards the pale afternoon sun shining though the thin clouds. The first one uncorked his flask and took a long swig. The other lazily waved his hand to get rid of a late autumn fly buzzing around his nose.

Pretending to be browsing fish at a nearby merchant’s stall, Tauriel and Kili exchanged glances. They had already lost precious time, and still they were no closer to a solution than almost two hours before. The elf was getting angry at herself. Not only was she unable to think of a way how to get the damn gates open, but she had also dragged Kili with her, his limping gait cutting her heart like a knife.

“They are bored out of their heads, and that flask is almost empty,” Tauriel whispered. “I’d say they’re going to be relieved in a few hours, so it’s no use pulling rank on these two. We need something else.”

Kili bit his lip. “Give me a moment,” he muttered, prodding a huge green fish that lay on the fishmonger’s table. He looked from the fish stall to the guards and then back to the fish stall again, apparently considering something. He lifted the fish in his hands and assessed its weight, opened its jaws and bent a scale to test its freshness.

Too nervous to pay particular attention to Kili’s fussing, Tauriel grimly stared over his head, trying to discern a week spot in the gate — rusted hinges, a single bolt or a rope that held it closed, anything. If there was one weak spot, they could set up a watch and quickly break the gate open when the dragon approaches, guards or no guards. But, in spite of her keen eyes, the gate seemed a sturdy structure. They either had to get the guards to cooperate, or probably something could be done about those half-rotten posts…

“Hey, Captain, now that’s a pike our companions will appreciate, don’t you think?” Kili’s loud question sent her thoughts scattering. “Merchant! Would you wrap up this excellent specimen!”

Tauriel had barely glanced down and opened her mouth to wonder why he was wasting time buying food, when Kili, still grinning, had already poured a handful of small copper coins into the fishmonger’s palm and thrown the cloth-wrapped pike over his shoulder.

“Thank you, my good man!” he continued cheerfully, with Tauriel frowning in confusion at the toothed monstrosity. “The following few days _are_ going to be difficult, what with Smaug coming; and it’s _so much_ easier when your provisions are prepared and cooked properly, not fished out of a lake from among dead bodies floating in boiled water... Say, would you be amenable to sell us also a barrel of roaches or other small fish that you have in bulk?”

At that Tauriel felt him press something smooth and warm into her hand, and a furtive look revealed it to be Kili’s runestone. _If any but a dwarf reads the runes on the stone…_ Oh, so this was another ruse of his. But how was it going to help with the gate?

The merchant blinked and looked up from counting the coins in his hand. “Why would Master Dwarf say the dragon is coming?” he suspiciously asked.

“Oh, me and my big mouth!” Kili slapped his forehead. “Forgive me if I have presumed, but I thought surely such a smart man like yourself would have figured it out,” he said.

“How do you think Thorin Oakenshield’s company — nine dwarves and a hobbit — is going to get rid of a _dragon_?” Kili continued in a conspiratorial whisper, bending closer over the table. “They will slither inside through a secret door, close the upper ventilation shafts, make a fire with some toxic minerals thrown on top and smoke the worm out. Then they’ll barricade themselves inside, and that’s it. The dragon is not our problem. Your Master will, of course, receive a hefty award for his help, for keeping people so calm and happy. You do understand that a sated dragon is a lot less dangerous dragon — once his belly is full, he’ll just fly away and leave us dwarves and elves alone…”

The merchant stared at Kili in complete shock, and Tauriel had to bite her lip to hold back a smile. She had no idea what Kili was getting at, but she trusted him enough to just let it play out.

“We don’t have much time, _mellon nîn_ ,” she said, trying to sound impatient and hoping she was going in the right direction. “We’ll need more provisions while we wait for that toxic smoke to clear.”

“You’re completely right, Captain!” Kili agreed with a sunny grin. “So, if you have any good roaches, dear man, or smelts, or breams, I’ll send somebody after that barrel later, right? And I’d wish you all the luck in the world escaping the flames when Smaug comes, but unfortunately it looks like the water-gates are all shut, so…” Kili carelessly shrugged one shoulder, adjusted the pike on the other and walked away as if he couldn’t care less about the poor town or even the fact that he had just revealed the secret plan of the dwarves.

Tauriel turned and followed the archer, her face carefully blank and her step dignified.

 

“Kili! What was that…” she exclaimed, rounding a corner and almost tripping over the archer where he had slid down a wall, frowning in pain and clutching his injured thigh. “ _Kili, ci vêr?_ Are you alright?”

“Just… one moment.” Kili breathed hard, as if he’d been running. “Look around the corner and tell me.”

Tauriel gritted her teeth and peeked around the corner as asked, feeling her nails sink into the soft, deteriorated wood of the building as she fought the impulse to turn around and simply take the archer back to where he could heal and rest. She took a deep breath and counted to ten before exhaling, a simple exercise her people used to calm down their minds.

“The stall is empty,” she declared. “And the fishmonger is… with the guards. They’re arguing about something. Making wild gestures towards Erebor… and the Master’s mansion, I think.”

“Kili, what’s going on?” she turned, looking at him over her shoulder. The archer was smirking, eyes closed and head thrown back and resting against the wall.

“Exactly what we needed, my lady. The merchant will know how to persuade them.”

Tauriel looked back to the water-gate. The guards were surreptitiously releasing the chains, and now the easiest push with an oar or a pole would throw the gate open. This part of the town had an escape route now. They had succeeded.

The elf captain was lost for words. She had expected to threaten or bribe the guards, but she had never thought to approach the issue in such a roundabout way, and through some third person at that. Tauriel looked down at the token still in her hand. A promise to a mother, carved in stone.

“Put down that fish for a moment,” she said, turning and kneeling beside the dwarf. It was crazy, what she was going to do, out in broad daylight in a town of Men. The only good thing was that the boardwalk running between the building and the vast lake, where they were sitting, was quite abandoned. She gave him back his runestone and put both hands on his injured thigh.

“No, Tauriel, there’s no need to waste time on that,” the archer protested, covering her hands with his, “I’ll just catch my breath, and then we can continue to the west gate…”

The elf stared at his hand, feeling his heavy, muscled thigh beneath her palms and his pleading gaze on the side of her face. Suddenly, it was too much, and she had to close her eyes against the onset of sensations and images. The pale sunlight, the quiet lapping of the waves, him — she remembered her shameless bawling in Kili’s lap only hours before, his awkward hug, the feel of his stubble and coarse, unbraided hair — it was a heady, welcoming sensation of physicality that had nothing to do with her usual experience of slitting throats and stabbing chests.

For some reason, she suddenly noted that she didn’t know any of these things about Legolas. Did he have warm hands? Were they smooth or calloused? When was the last time he had hugged her? Had he ever?

 _“You fool of a Silvan…_ ” she murmured in Sindarin, chest tight with some inexplicable ache.

“Tauriel? Is everything alright?” Kili’s voice interrupted her musings.

Tauriel sighed, forcing herself to return to the present. She wordlessly nodded, checked that there was nobody in sight and started her chant.

 

~~~

 

Hawke tripped, and only holding on to the reins of her horse prevented her from landing face first into the jagged stones that littered the path. The mage cursed and sat down, breathing hard.

“You’re falling asleep on your feet,” Bard grumbled coming up the path behind her.

Hawke sighed, hiding her face in her palms. She was well aware of her state even without the bargeman pointing it out. She needed to heal and to regain her mana reserves, but she didn’t have any potions, and neither did she have the time for sleep, for natural regeneration. The ancient road on the east side of River Running was almost destroyed by avalanches and mudslides, and they could not ride.

“We’ll never reach the dwarves before nightfall,” she hopelessly declared. “Not if we still have to cross that river and the south and south-west spurs of the mountain, and find where the secret path begins, and then climb it up to the door…”

“So what, Hawke? This was all for nothing?” Bard asked angrily. “Pull yourself together! You said yourself that there was little hope reaching them in time, so stop whining and let’s start thinking!”

Hawke involuntarily sat up straighter, surprised at her own readiness to give up. Perhaps she really was too tired, and the fact that there was no Isabela or Varric to cheer her up, no Fenris to glare at her disapprovingly, no Anders to pick her up and envelop her in his healing magic… Hawke clenched her fists. It was no use chasing shadows. She had Bard, and it had to be enough.

She stood up and looked around her. Ravenhill was a bit behind them across the river, as they had been looking for a ford upstream from the river bend. That was as far as Bard had ever gone in this wasteland. She looked towards the north. The sad remains of the ancient road ran parallel to the river, up to the ruins of Dale and then onwards to the front gate of the dwarven kingdom. That was where, according to Thorin, the dragon had broken his way in.

“Let’s go closer to the front gate,” she said. “If we’re going to take on the dragon, then we need a narrower place — the valley here is too wide.”

 “Alright,” Bard agreed, “and then what?”

“Once we find a good place, I’ll sit down and think again. Then I’ll sleep for a few hours. And then we’ll kill the dragon. How’s that for a plan?” She smiled at Bard as she took the reins of her horse and ruffled its poll.

“Sounds crazy,” Bard smirked. “But then again, so does surviving Smaug’s attack all those years ago, returning to retake Erebor, coming here through the gates of death from another world and using blood magic to get your way around fools. ‘Crazy’ is something you apparently have in common with those dwarves.”

“Why, thank you,” Hawke grinned, tired eyes sparkling. She quickly stretched, rolled her shoulders and started walking down the sloped remains of the road. “Now tell me, what would you do as a Lord of Dale?”

“Under what conditions?” he asked, following her with his own horse.

“The dragon dead, Laketown safe, dwarves happy and ready to negotiate an alliance.”

“Hmm. What about elves?”

Hawke frowned. “Good question. They do have an alliance with Laketown, right?”

“Not so much an alliance as a trade agreement,” Bard shrugged. “And I guess that was before the Master provided such generous help to the Elvenking’s escaped prisoners.”

“But now his own son and Captain of the Guard are in Laketown.”

“True. But it’s hard to say how that’s going to play out.”

“Bard… When we finish with Smaug, you _are_ going to be Lord of Dale. You have the birthright, and you’ll be a hero. Who knows what’s going to happen with the Master. Maybe he dies, maybe he resigns or flees. I understand you elect your leaders from among the people, so you could even end up as a leader of _two_ cities. You have to start thinking about these things.”

“I’m not interested in power.”

“But you have a sharp mind and lots of common sense. You see opportunities, you see risks. You’d be a good leader. And look around you, at the rotting of Laketown and the destruction of Dale. This region needs a wise leader once the dragon is dead.”

Hawke could feel Bard’s gaze boring at the back of her head, but she didn’t bother turning around. Let him stew if he wants. She knew she was right. And what if she dies? No, the sooner he started thinking as a leader of the people, not just as a father, the better.

It took them a couple more hours to reach the valley between the southern spurs of the mountain and the city of Dale, where River Running started its quick, white-rapid flow towards the lake. Hawke carefully assessed the burnt-out field in front of her. The sun was setting into the clouds, and the night would come soon. Gasping, Hawke looked up at the sky once more. It was Durin’s Day! The dwarves still had to find the secret door! What if… But no, surely her appearance in Middle-earth could not affect the weather!

The truth was she had no idea. She was fumbling around blindly, basing her decisions on whatever scraps of information she remembered from her nights with Thorin. She should have sat down with him properly, before running off. She should have asked him for more details, they should have worked out a plan together! But no, killing dragons is a piece of cake for Hawke! Why would she take advice from somebody who had obviously failed in that same endeavour? When leaving the folk pub, she had conveniently forgotten that Smaug was only the first part of Thorin’s problems…

Hawke pursed her lips and turned back to the clearing.

“I can lay a trap just inside the front gate,” she said, pointing at the gaping, smoking hole that Smaug had made when he first came to Erebor.

“A trap? How are you going to trap a sixty-feet long dragon?” Bard asked, stupefied by the idea.

Sixty feet?! Hawke gulped. When describing Smaug as “huge”, everybody had apparently forgotten to mention _how_ huge. Well, the high dragon of the Bone Pit mine hadn’t been _much_ smaller. And it had had a swarm of drakes with it, while Smaug was alone, or so she understood. On the other hand, she was alone too, with only one archer at her back. But she had to succeed, there was no other option.

“I’ll set up an arcane prison,” she said quietly. “The trick will be to make it powerful enough and then to make it hold that monstrosity. The rest is… the rest. I need to sleep, though. At the moment I couldn’t fry a worm, much less cast a prison spell…”

Bard nodded grimly and led them back towards the ruins of Dale.

Shortly after, they found shelter in some half-destroyed building on the outskirts of the city. Bard led the horses inside and barricaded the door opening with some boards to prevent them from wandering off. With the bargeman standing watch, Hawke lay down on the bare floor, put the saddle under her head and covered herself with the sweaty horse blanket as a miserly protection against the night cold. She fell asleep immediately.


	10. Chapter 10

“Brother!” bellowed the blond dwarf the moment the door opened before Kili. He barrelled into him, crushing the archer in a bear hug, and Tauriel, with the pike on her shoulder, barely managed to jump out of their way when, with the force of the momentum, the two brothers slammed into the door jamb. She winced, feeling the impact travel into the floor joists.

“Fili! Get off me!” the archer laughed.

 “Tauriel, you’re back!” She was greeted by Tilda’s much gentler hug around the waist. At least she wasn’t rammed into anything, Tauriel thought wryly. She passed her glance over the kitchen and saw that everybody was there, except the master of the house himself.

“Where’s Bard?” she asked, unconsciously hugging the little girl back.

Fili disentangled himself from his brother and turned to the elf, blue eyes bright with relief.

“We went to the stables as you asked, lady, and we were told that both Bard and Hawke had left, taking two of the Master’s horses. The gatekeeper confirmed that they have left the town.”

“Aye, and the shore-side gate is locked now, miss,” Bofur added. “Nobody really knows why, the guard just said that it was by the order of the Master’s right hand, somebody named Alfrid.”

“Alfrid is a nasty rat,” Sigrid murmured, and Bain nodded at her side. “Always sniffing for trouble-makers, meaning honest people who just try to make ends meet…”

“We managed to spread the news throughout the whole town, lady Tauriel,” Bain interrupted her. “With the dwarves gone and the Master not there to convince them of the opposite, it was like a veil was torn from their eyes, the people started thinking for themselves again.”

“And we packed all the valuables, lass, — blankets, tools and provisions,” Oin nodded his head. “The sacks are downstairs, ready to be loaded into the boat.”

“Yes, but what about Da, lady Tauriel?” Sigrid asked. “We can’t leave without him.”

Tauriel blinked, taking in all the expectant stares aimed at her. She had hoped that putting together the escape plan would be enough to get them on the right path, but she had fully expected Oin to step in after that, being the eldest, or Bofur, a sharp-minded dwarf in his prime. Why were they still looking up to her? She couldn’t be responsible for them!

“Lady Tauriel, Captain,” Fili stumbled for words as he stepped forward and took her hand in both of his. “I cannot express how grateful I am — we all are — for what you did for my brother. Our people may not see eye to eye, but you have shown that you are kind and generous, and I am sorry that I didn’t tell you so before, but I’m telling you now. _Thank you_ for saving Kili’s life, Lady. I and our family will be forever at your service!”

Overwhelmed and confused, Tauriel carefully extricated herself from Tilda’s hug and Fili’s grasp, and finally put the fish she had insisted on carrying down on the table.

“No need to thank me,” she sighed. “I’m glad I could help. Now, with your joint efforts, the people of Laketown should be able to save themselves. The east gate opens with a small push, and the west gate will be opened by the guards themselves — they were surprisingly sensible. You just have to leave the town now, through that opening Bain mentioned, just to be on the safe side. As the shore-gate is closed, I’ll join you in the boat, but on the shore our ways will part.”

At her last words, she saw Kili freeze, a wooden cup of water raised to his lips.

“Why?” he asked, turning sharply towards her, brown eyes wide. Tauriel took a deep breath.

“My companion, Legolas. You were sick, you might not remember...”

“I remember.”

“Well, I sent him to scout the shore for orcs that had been following you down the Forest River, and he should have returned a long time ago. I need to find him.”

“I’m going with you,” Kili declared.

“ _We_ are going with you,” his brother corrected him, boring Tauriel with his blue gaze. For a strange moment, Tauriel had the feeling that she had recently seen a very similar gaze, in a face older and darker than Fili’s, but she couldn’t remember when and where. Then again, it was late and she was growing tired, and, considering Legolas’ disappearance, she really should not say no to a partner — _one_ partner, that is. Tauriel sighed. Remembering what she could of the dwarves’ fighting in Mirkwood, her choice between the two brothers was almost indecent in its unambiguity.

“Fili, I’d ask you to stay with the children of our host, same as masters Oin and Bofur,” she said.

“So it means… _I_ can come?” Kili asked her, half elated and half incredulous.

“You can.”

Fili, Bofur and even Oin stared at her as if she’d grown antlers.

“My lady! No offence to you or the lad, but why would you refuse a tested warrior and accept an injured hunter instead?” Bofur asked, confused.

Thud!

Kili had put the cup down on the counter with slightly more force than necessary. Hiding his face in the wild dark tangles, he turned and leaned on the counter, awaiting Tauriel’s response with fists clenched and shoulders hunched.

Tauriel glanced at Fili, who seemed concerned about his brother’s reaction and embarrassed by his companion’s choice of words, but even so would not deny the truth in them. She could see it too, in the proud set of his shoulders, the steady blue gaze. The elder brother was a fighter by profession and inclination, while the younger… Her gaze travelled back to Kili. He was alive, because in Mirkwood, he had jumped out of her way when she threw a dagger at a spider, and she had killed another and survived because she had seen the beast approaching, had read it in the young archer’s eyes. If she had to choose a partner for tonight, it was going to be somebody who paid attention and didn’t get in her way. It had to be somebody she was willing to trust, his companions’ opinions be damned.

“I healed his wound,” she said quietly. “He may come if he wishes.”

 

~~~

Hawke woke up with a start. She vaguely remembered she had been dreaming, but whatever it had been was quickly replaced with the feeling of stiffness and numbness. The floor was freezing.

She glanced around, wondering where Bard was, but calmed, seeing his dark silhouette in the yard. If he hadn’t woken her up then probably it was still early in the night.

She stood up and, wrapping the saddle blanket around her shoulders, walked over to the horses.

“Hush, darling, hush,” she soothed her bay, putting her cold hands under its mane. “You’re bigger than me. You’re also smarter, aren’t you? You’re not running around the North in little less than some pants and chainmail.”

After getting some life in her hands, Hawke picked up her staff and set it to a low, warming glow, pleased to note that even the short nap had restored her energy to almost normal levels. She sat down on the floor and, after some ruffling in her sack, pulled out her old journal. Someday, it would surely make an interesting reading, she thought with a wry smirk, passing her hand over the worn leather covers and the frayed edges of the pages. She opened it around the middle, where, hidden between ancient shopping lists, Isabela’s first drafts of a bodice-ripper and tax reminders from the Viscount’s Office, she kept her notes on blood magic.

_“The blood feeds, the blood nourishes. In blood, the call is heard. In blood, the deal is made.”_

Hawke ran her fingertips over the page, covered in her barely legible Kirkwall script. These were the few passages she remembered from a cursed tome of knowledge, the first moments of weightlessness before taking the plunge towards the most primal and powerful school of magic.

She turned the page to some excerpts from the Canticle of Threnodies.

_“The demons who would be gods, began to whisper to men from their tombs within the earth. And the men of Tevinter heard, and raised altars to the pretender gods once more, and in return were given, in hushed whispers, the secrets of the darkest magic._

_They urged the magisters to ever-greater depravity, rewarding them with power and more. Arrogance became a great caged beast in the lands of Tevinter, an emptiness that consumed all and could never be filled. To satisfy its hunger, the mage lords, at the goading of their gods, assaulted the Golden City, heart of all creation, to take the Maker's power for themselves._

_The moment they entered the city of the Maker, their sin poisoned it. What had been golden turned black, and violently they were flung from the world of dreams back into the waking world.”_

Hawke placed her hand over the grim passages. Years ago, she had been looking for answers, but all she had found was threats and curses. No explanations, no descriptions, no actual research. Just a black smudge of a city visible from anywhere in the Fade, and the Templars hunting down the maleficars without as much as a trial…

Hawke sighed and turned the next page to reread her own speculations. She put a finger between the pages and leafed back to the beginning of her journal, where she had noted her father’s explanations on the nature of magic. Then she turned back to the middle. She bit her nail, thinking. Having successfully escaped any formal schooling, magical theory was not exactly her forte.

“So if I want the prison to hold… then I need to reinforce the grounding of the arcane flows. I… combine the arcanes with the gravities, which... sort of creates a tear in the Veil, right? The dragon gets stuck between the worlds,” she muttered to herself, “and then I just haemorrhage the living shit out of him, while keeping the tear from growing bigger.”

Hawke wrapped herself tighter in the horse blanket and thought some more. She tried to assess the cost of the spells and the best sequence of casting, remembering that she needed also the ice spell for Bard’s arrows.

Leafing through the pages some more, she thought she got it. The combination of spells was tough but it could be done. Of course, it was also highly experimental, but Hawke hadn’t become who she was by following any instructions to the letter. There were the three cardinal rules of magic, but everything else was _“dream and idea, hope and fear; endless possibilities”_. Yeah, that was the _one_ part of the Threnodies that Hawke liked.

Expecting to be more dead than alive by the end of this whole affair, Hawke got up and grabbed the saddle.

“Come here, darling,” she cooed. “Mummy’s not walking one more step if she can help it; she’s saving her strength for the big bad lizard. You think that’s smart? Of course it’s smart!”

 

 

~~~

_“Kili, you cannot risk your life now and follow her against orcs!”_

_“Just minutes ago you were praising her to heavens and promising our services!”_

_“Yes, but…”_

_“You never meant it?”_

_“I did! But you almost died today! I’m not letting you out of my sight again!”_

_“As if that helped with the morgul shaft! You saw the whole thing, and what? It still hit me! And on the other hand — how many times have you and Uncle left me alone with Mother for MONTHS, and I take care of everything? You think those wolf pelts grow in trees? You think bandits never come knocking on our door? And now you suddenly think I can’t handle this?”_

_“Kili, knowing how many traps you have laid around the house, I can only feel SORRY for those bandits, but this is different, this is-“_

_“For one sodding night, and in the company of a capable fighter!”_

_“Uncle will have your head if, barely healed, you go running off after an elf!”_

_“Why? He should be grateful that she ran off after a dwarf!”_

_“She didn’t exactly risk her life coming to Laketown!”_

_“Fili, you just don’t understand, do you? Without her, I wouldn’t HAVE a life!”_

 

Mahal be praised for Khuzdul and _iglishmêk_ , thought Kili, following Tauriel through the forest quietly like a shadow. He still winced remembering his row with Fili, the elder brother’s need to protect clashing with the younger’s need to be trusted.

And normally he _was_ trusted, at least by his family. Usually, it was everybody else he had to prove himself to, but his Uncle had always relied on him as much as on his brother. It was Kili’s own choice to stay behind while the two travelled for work, connections and alliances. He had felt where he was needed the most, and had taken up that role without effort. But they had never had any doubt about his training and skill, and Fili hadn’t treated him like this for _decades_. Heck, even when Thorin decided to go on this quest, his only concern had been how to convince _Mother_ to stay at home…

And now it was suddenly not alright to let him go help Tauriel? Now he was suddenly reckless and foolish?

And, Mahal’s beard, it was just for one night! Then she would probably go back to her forest with that blond prince of hers, and Kili would never see her again.

No, Kili thought, stepping lightly after the elf, this was exactly where he wanted to be. If, for some inexplicable reason, this otherworldly and gorgeous creature wanted him to come, trusting him over his brother, then come with her he would, and that was his final word. Easy smiles and jokes aside, he could only feel sorry for those who had never run across his stubborn streak before, his own brother included...

The young dwarf’s boots were creaking. His sword, given to him by the Master before the dwarves set out, he held in its scabbard in front of him, both to avoid hitting trees, and to avoid it thudding against his leg. On softer ground Tauriel even had to turn her head to check if Kili was still behind her. It was almost disconcerting. How could somebody so heavy — she remembered the poor door jamb — move so silently?

She also felt guilty. For taking him from his brother, for causing that vicious row, and most of all, for thinking so much about him, when she should be concentrating on her friend.

With the cloudy, moonless sky, the forest was pitch black, and even Tauriel, with her sharp eyes, couldn’t wait to get out on the lakeside path. Had it really been only this morning when she had hurried in the opposite direction, Legolas and Hawke close behind her? How could the world change so much in one day?

Finally they left the dark thicket between the hidden campsite of their companions and the lakeside path. She rather felt than heard Kili stop beside her, silent and still as a rock. She’d have to ask him about that later. Or not, considering she had to return to her King. Tauriel’s shoulders slumped.

She listened carefully to the rustling of the leaves, the lapping of the waves against the shore. Nothing. Wordlessly, she stepped on the stony, old path and continued her search.

“Tauriel,” Kili called out to her in a whisper. The elf turned, a dark grey silhouette against the lighter background of the vast lake. “If your friend is half as smart as he’s grumpy, he’d have laid a trap or ambush on the path and sit waiting in the trees. With this darkness, we’re either going to fall into it, or I don’t understand what exactly we’re looking for.”

“Legolas finds no use for traps,” Tauriel whispered back. “And he’s not grumpy.”

“Then all this darkness must be messing with my memory,” Kili said. “He’s sure the best fighter I’ve ever seen, but you’d think it pains him to smile every now and then.”

“He does smile, just not… What do you have against Legolas anyway?”

Kili chuckled. “That he thinks he’s too noble for traps?”

Tauriel huffed. “I sent him to scout, not trap. He was going to find the orcs’ daytime camp and report back to me in Laketown. I thought he hadn’t returned because the gate was closed and he couldn’t get inside during the day. But in such case he should have been somewhere on the shore. Unless we missed him in the darkness, but I don’t think we did.”

“So you think he’s somewhere ahead?”

“Yes. And I’m afraid he’s…” Tauriel froze, finger pressed to her lips. Kili listened but couldn’t hear anything over the soft gusts of wind and rustling of the leaves.

The elf wordlessly waved at him, and he followed her further down the path. She stopped before a thicket of bushes, listening, and then softly whistled like wind caught in a tree hollow.

After a while, somebody whistled back, and Tauriel moved in the direction it had come from.

Kili had to admit it was clever. Any birdsong would have been suspicious this late in autumn, and at night on top of that. He’d have to ask her to teach him that whistle, in case he ever decided to take somebody hunting with him... Damn! Kili cursed under his breath. He had _again_ forgotten that she’d be leaving in the morning!

What a lucky bastard, that Legolas. _He_ gets to meet Tauriel every day, but, judging from the abrupt, frowning way he had talked to her back in the prison, and then again at Bard’s house, the guy clearly had no idea what a treasure was under his very nose. Kili could accept such blindness from dwarves, even from his own brother, but that an _elf_ would not see it… There was just one explanation — Legolas, evidently, was stupid. And Kili wasn’t particularly fond of stupid people who talked to Tauriel in such tones...

Tauriel rushed forward, noticing the blond elf the moment he stood up in his hideout. _“Legolas! What happened? I worried about you!”_ she exclaimed, switching instinctively to Sindarin and then enveloping him in a hug. Not understanding a word but having no complaints about vision, Kili had a sudden and inexplicable urge to crush the elf’s perfect physiognomy.

 _“Tauriel! What are you…? Tauriel, please!”_ Legolas squirmed in her embrace.

She rolled her eyes and let him go. “So?”

 _“So, there are twenty-two orcs in that group of trees over there,”_ he said, waving towards the lake, _“who are tying together a raft and preparing hooks for climbing the walls.”_

“Legolas, Westron please,” Tauriel asked, stepping aside and wondering if Legolas was really so overwhelmed by her hug, or just deliberately ignoring her companion.

 _“Ah, the ugly part of the world that you saved,”_ he smirked, making a show of noticing Kili behind Tauriel’s back. _“I didn’t expect him to be on his feet already. But why is he here? You think my Father will forgive you easier if you bring one of the prisoners back? Why would he care for this nobody?”_

Tauriel gritted her teeth. _“He’s not my prisoner anymore. He has earned his right to freedom. I will deal with your Father myself, when the time comes.”_

_“So, considering all that talk you gave me about the chain of command, why IS he here, Tauriel? Is he now following you like a dog? Does it feel good to hold the leash?”_

Tauriel slapped him hard across the face. Unexpected as it was, Kili was at her side immediately, sword half drawn and eyes glinting dangerously.

 _“I asked him to come with me, to help me find you,”_ Tauriel said to Legolas quietly and precisely, cutting the words like a knife. _“You have opposed me on every step of the way, but I still worry for you, care for you. I still hope you will see the truth, beyond what your Father tells you. I hope that one day you will give up your prejudices and we will be friends again.”_

Legolas stood, holding his cheek, pale eyes wide from shock. Kili almost felt bad for him, but then again, his Mother had always said that a hard slap every now and then did more for one’s intelligence than a thousand words and reminders.

 _“You have grown cruder in the dwarves’ company…”_ the elf said slowly. _“You would not have raised your hand against me before.”_

_“You would not have used such language against me either.”_

_“I saw how you look at him, back in my Father’s halls and then in the bargeman’s house…You lied to me, Tauriel.”_

Tauriel hung her head and let silence stretch between them. _“Forgive me, Legolas,”_ she finally said. _“You angered me, and I didn’t think… It’s been a long day.”_

 _“That it has,”_ the prince agreed with a dismayed smile, straightening up and taking a deep breath. His eyes met Kili’s. “My apologies, swordsman,” he said, finally switching to Westron. “I appreciate your wish to help — if not me, then Tauriel. So what do you say about twenty-two orcs making a raft down in those trees over there?”

Kili narrowed his eyes at the blond, but he recognized a truce when such was offered. Glancing at Tauriel, with her hunched shoulders and averted gaze, he tersely nodded. Of course, he wondered what this whole thing had been about, but, remembering his own row with Fili, he could understand if she didn’t want to talk about it. Either way, it was not Kili’s place to pry. She had already given him so much.

“No raft made from those osiers will take twenty-two,” he said. “They will have to split in two. I say we shoot a burning arrow at the raft when it is far away from the coast and deal with the ten or eleven that remain. Then finish the ones who manage to return to the shore.”

The elves exchanged glances.

“Or we could take on all of them, Master Dwarf,” Legolas drawled, sure of his skill but probably not so sure of Tauriel’s response, not after that vicious slap.

Kili allowed himself a chuckle. “See, my lady? And they call _me_ reckless!”

Tauriel flashed him a weak smile.

“We do as Kili says,” she declared.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Praise to iscatterthemintimeandspace for her time and inbox space. And a strong vote on brotherly feels.  
> I know Legolas is being difficult but I can't honestly go into explaining it all. Let's just say he's hurting a lot from Tauriel's previous rejection, and is not very good at holding himself together. I think I have too many backstories and headcanons. If you think something is not making sense, feel free to point it out.
> 
> I also hope the crash-course in blood magic fulfills its purpose for those who either don't know DA or don't spend their free time reading the Chant of Light... ;)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Facilis descensus Averno.

 

 

Hawke and Bard dismounted just before the front gate. This close to the dragon’s lair, the horses were getting jittery, and Bard led them to the far side of the opening, tying them to a broken column. Hawke waited for him to come back, and then she took a deep breath and entered the mountain.

 

~~~

The fight had been quick and simple. Privately, Tauriel had thought that Kili’s plan would be unnecessary; the elves could deal with all twenty-two orcs quite easily, but she had had to account for the fact that there had been three of them. She knew hers and Legolas’ fighting style — a lightning quick assault coupled with constant movement, making it harder for the enemy to hit back — but she had to admit she hadn’t known what to expect from Kili. He had shown he was light on his feet, but he was still a dwarf, and dwarves charged in and relied on their endurance more than their speed. Tauriel hadn’t wanted to take any risks.

As it turned out, Kili’s fighting style was a well-balanced mix of offense and retreat. He was quick and precise, avoiding charging over long distances and therefore the pitfalls of uncontrollable momentum. Most of the time, he had fought a few steps behind Tauriel, picking off any orcs who would attack her from behind, or finishing the ones who were only incapacitated by the elves’ quick strikes.

Tauriel hadn’t had the opportunity to watch him very closely, but she found she was intensely curious about how he used his weight. Even now she couldn’t take her eyes off his figure walking in front of her. He was tall for a dwarf. He was broad-shouldered in comparison to her, or even Legolas, but he was still leaner than other dwarfs. He had evidently received some classical sword training, but he fought slightly differently than his brother. Either because he was taller, with a higher centre of gravity, or because he usually used ranged attacks and that somehow influenced his close combat.

She could also feel Legolas’ gaze boring into her back as they walked back to the camp. He hadn’t wanted to come. He had argued that, with the orcs dead, they had fulfilled their initial duty and should return immediately. Tauriel, on the other hand, had argued that it was still not clear what had happened or was going to happen with Smaug and that they should stay with the people of Laketown for a while longer — to protect the children at least. At that, Legolas had shot an eloquent glance at Kili, but fortunately he hadn’t said anything rude again.

Finally, they reached the campsite. Tauriel had asked them to not make any fire, as that could attract the dragon, should he leave the mountain tonight, but the dwarves had found a solution by digging out a pit and preparing the food on glowing embers.

The pike was delicious; even Legolas smiled a bit, and Tauriel had to suppress a smirk when Kili noticed it and winked at her. She really needed to talk to Legolas, though.

 

~~~

By the time Kili had eaten, recounted their skirmish, listened to and tried to calm the children’s worries and anxiety, accepted his brother’s apology — which was really more of a head-bump than an apology, but there were things for which the brothers didn’t need any words — and finished smoking Fili’s pipe, Tauriel was still talking to that blond ponce of hers.

Wrapping himself in a chequered dark blue blanket, Kili sat down in the moss, supporting his back against a fallen tree. As he watched the two elves sitting face to face in the gloomy darkness, his frown slowly disappeared, and he sighed. A blind man could see that for all their arguing, the blond was better suited for her than Kili could ever aspire to be. She was, and always would remain an impossible dream. He could only take whatever trust she was willing to give him, help her whenever she allowed and… just be whatever she needed him to be. Kili wasn’t sure what that was but he would be damn sure to not let her down.

Not that there was much time for him to do anything stupid anymore. She was returning to Mirkwood, come morning, and he didn’t think he would ever see her again. The dwarves had agreed to accompany the children to their grandfather’s old house a couple of miles from the lake shore, and Oin and Bofur would stay with them for some days. Fili and Kili would follow their Uncle to the mountain.

Kili watched the red-head as long as he could, but eventually the day’s exhaustion caught up with him and, with a heavy sigh, he wrapped himself tighter in the blanket and fell asleep.

 

~~~

“We make the trap here,” Hawke whispered in the murky darkness. The soft glow of her staff was little help against the swirls of foul-smelling smoke emerging from the depths of the mountain.

“Are you crazy, Hawke?” Bard hissed right behind her. “It’s suicide!”

“Then so be it,” she cut. “You can wait outside. If my life is enough to keep the dragon trapped in this mountain, then so be it.”

“Hawke, you can’t be serious…”

“I am. If the worst happens, I can seal the exit with my blood. The dragon can rot inside, for all I care.”

“But the dwarves?”

“Will have to leave through the secret door and never come back. But that’s the worst case scenario, Bard. I fully intend to finish the job myself.”

“Then why here? When you said you wanted a narrower place, why did you decide that _inside_ is the best idea?!”

“Because this _is_ the narrowest place! Now shut up and step back. I’m laying down the prison glyph!”

 

~~~

Tauriel got up from her bedroll. Legolas, she suspected, could fall asleep in a snow drift and be no worse for it in the morning, but Tauriel had always hated cold. She wouldn’t fall sick, but she would hate it and shiver, and be unable to sleep, like now.

Wondering what to do with herself while Legolas was making slow circles around the camp and everybody else was sleeping, she picked up her daggers and tried to imagine them made from dwarven steel. She tried to imagine her boots made with thick soles and wrapped with furs, her legs short and her shoulders broad. Daggers held like swords in her hands, she slowly turned on the spot, trying to imagine how it must feel for a dwarf. Tauriel closed her eyes, remembering Kili’s sharp movements. She remembered his heavy shoulder when she had helped him sit up and drink the tea, she remembered his thick thigh she had dressed after she had finished the healing, she remembered his hand, she remembered Fili crashing him into the door. The elf shivered, thinking of the strength involved in moving so silently and quickly.

Tauriel lowered the daggers and glanced at Kili where he was sleeping. She could not explain why she was so drawn to him. It wasn’t his strength; there were others who were stronger. It wasn’t his looks or loyalty either, and she didn’t have any leash on him, regardless of what Legolas might think.

She looked around the camp and then softly walked over to the young dwarf. She knelt in front of him in the moss and, without thinking, reached out to gently push some hair back from his face. Perhaps it had something to do with his light-heartedness, she continued her thought. But no, more than light-heartedness, it was rather a _lightness of being_. It was easy to simply _be_ with him.

“ _Mmb_ …?” The dwarf opened one sleepy eye, and then sat up when he saw it was her. “Tauriel? What’s happened?”

Tauriel cursed her cold hands. “Nothing. Go back to sleep, Kili,” she whispered.

“Why are _you_ not sleeping?” the dwarf asked.

Tauriel shrugged, embarrassed by her own weakness. “Cold,” she said.

“Come here then.” Tauriel’s eyes widened as he rearranged the blanket and held one side up for her. He wanted her to… to put her head on his shoulder and sleep under one blanket? Tauriel paled. It was improper. It was so improper that there had to be some completely new word for what he was proposing… And another new word would have to be invented to describe an elf who cannot keep herself warm and who instead would like very much to curl up under a strange young dwarf’s arm…

“Come here,” he repeated, and Tauriel gave in.

“I was trying to understand how you fight,” she said, carefully lying down, arranging the skirt of her dress and folding her hands to her own chest. She wasn’t going to touch him or anything.

“You did?” Kili chuckled. He tucked the blanket around them and pressed her hands to his chest anyway, covering them with his own. Tauriel stiffened. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Elves… don’t touch,” she muttered. “Not this much, anyway.”

“Oh.”

“I mean I don’t even know you! I met you two days ago when you were my damn prisoner, and then you almost died, and, _nan ear adh in elin_ , you’re a…” Tauriel barely managed to shut her mouth before she said something truly stupid. She pressed her forehead against his shoulder and tried to breathe.

At her distressed tone, Kili had instinctively gathered her closer, rather than letting her go, and she hadn’t fought him, because, damn, she could _cry_ for how good it felt.

Tauriel’s mind was reeling, elven upbringing clashing with her own urges, memories of her childhood, of living on the outskirts of Mirkwood, where there had been sun and where the people had still held to their ancient beliefs and practices... There was such a huge chunk of her Silvan background that she had lost when she moved to the Elvenking’s Halls!

“Shh,” Kili was soothing her, lightly running his hands over her arms and back, blanket tucked safely around her. “I’m not dying anymore. I just wanted to keep you warm. Forgive me if I’ve overstepped something…”

“No, it’s… alright,” she whispered. It was. She just wasn’t used to it, and hadn’t even admitted to herself how much she had needed it. “My aunts… I don’t remember my parents, but my aunts, who raised me, left for Valinor not long after I came of age. I haven’t had any… family to… hug or… curl up to. I wanted. But… I’m not much of an elf, am I?” she choked out, a slight note of hysteria in her voice. She didn’t even know why she was telling him this.

Kili didn’t say anything, just held her in his warm embrace, drawing light circles on her back, and slowly, gradually, Tauriel relaxed.

“Tell me, _ghivash_ ,” he asked quietly.

Tauriel closed her eyes and breathed in his scent. He was dusty and sweaty, and perhaps bloody here and there. The dwarf probably didn’t smell very nice, objectively speaking, but underneath it all, he was _warm_ , and Tauriel found she liked it very much.It was calming and grounding.

“The edge of the forest was becoming dangerous,” she continued, “so my aunts, before leaving, arranged with Thranduil’s steward to take me in for training. Thranduil became my guardian for until I stood on my own, and, together with Legolas, he became my new family. They, and the steward, and the previous guard captain. Quite suddenly I found myself answering to men, training with men, drinking and celebrating, and arguing with men… Then putting together the roster and leading men into battle. It would have been highly improper to… Hug, or anything. So, that’s how I ended up the way I am,” she shrugged slightly. “A killing machine who mostly lives among the stars and in her own head. What about you?”

She heard Kili’s chuckle rumble in his chest. She liked that too.

“The closest I get to the stars is when I’m thatching the roof, or when one lies in my arms,” he teased, hugging her tighter for a moment. Tauriel smiled.

“I was born in Ered Luin,” he said. “I have my uncle, brother and mother, but you already know that. My father died before I was born.”

“What did you do there?” Tauriel asked. “You said you were a caravan guard once.”

“Aye, there were such jobs. Other times, I would accompany Thorin when he was trying to forge new alliances or rekindle old ones. Most of the time, though, I stayed at home — took care of the household, helped Mother. I hunted, as Bofur already informed you. I repaired things made from wood, leather and metal. Though Fili’s much better with metal, he was my uncle’s apprentice longer than I. Heh. You should have seen Uncle’s face when, just having finished a meagre supper of gruel and salted fish, my brother stands up in all his blond glory and declares that he wants to become a goldsmith,” Kili laughed. “Of course, he didn’t get that chance. We didn’t have the money for the materials, and nobody in Ered Luin has enough gold to warrant the profession in the first place. Fili ended up a regular blacksmith. Forges his own weapons now. My life, meanwhile, has largely revolved around sawdust, lime, nails, paint, jars of brain, ash and such.”

“Jars of brain?” Tauriel laughed.

“Aye, for treating hides.”

“So you’re a hunter, thatcher, tanner, painter, smith and carpenter. And a swordsman, too.”

“Yeah, something like that,” Kili chuckled. “A jack-of-all-trades they called me in Ered Luin. Knowing bits and pieces of everything and excelling in nothing.”

“You are a good fighter,” she pointed out.

“My brother and uncle are better. You’re better.”

“Then what about hunting? If Bofur said you’re a hunter then it sounds like that’s your main craft?”

“You could say that, yeah. It’s definitely my favourite craft.”

Tauriel raised herself on her elbow and turned up her face to look at him. She shivered, thinking how close they were like this. His brown gaze was wandering over her face, lingering on her cheeks and lips, and Tauriel felt it almost like a physical caress. She had to fight a sudden impulse to lean forward and kiss him; it would be so easy... Tauriel rested her forehead against his shoulder, trying to get a grip on herself.

“You know what I think, Kili?” she said, after a moment. “I think it’s all those bits and pieces that make you who you are. Perhaps your compatriots didn’t think very highly of you, because they didn’t know what you’re doing for your family. I saw you fight today, and you’re good. I saw you in Mirkwood, and you’re attentive. With the guards, I saw that you’re clever. Somewhere, somehow, you’ve learned to notice things. You see opportunities, you pay attention, you find the right words. You’re smarter than you let on. Don’t hide it, Kili, and maybe next time Bofur won’t be so surprised.”

Kili lightly ran his hand down her spine, and even through the blanket, Tauriel had to suppress another shiver. Honestly, he was driving her mad!

“That’s a lot of trust you put in me, Tauriel,” he drawled thoughtfully.

“Mmm… You deserve it,” Tauriel mumbled barely above a whisper and snuggled back into his warm side. She needed to close her eyes and think. To stop talking, and seeing, and feeling for a moment, and to reconcile the warring ideas in her head. For the few remaining hours till dawn, she wanted to just be.

Kili held her, wondering about the crazy bends his life was making lately. _Months_ on the road, then _weeks_ in a murky forest, and then suddenly, in quick succession — finding himself the Elvenking’s prisoner, meeting Tauriel, escaping in barrels, getting hit with the morgul shaft, arriving in Laketown, then being left behind as the rest of the company leave for Erebor… Meeting Tauriel again, being saved by her, and falling in love with her, being trusted and accepted by her, then following her in her search… The whole time knowing that she was from a completely different world, an unreachable, immortal beauty who walks in white starlight, the farthest and most impossible of his dreams… 

Only to be woken up by her a few hours later, because she’s _cold_. And, half-asleep, and clearly out of his mind, as usual, where Tauriel was concerned, he offers her to share his blanket, and _she accepts_. And then it turns out that it’s something completely against her elven customs, and, Mahal, he should have guessed. If not from Mirkwood, then at least from Rivendell, he should have remembered how reserved elves were about touch. But no, Kili, being the boor that he is, just continues pawing as if she’s some tavern wench, _and still_ _she stays_. She tells him her life story, and asks about his, and snuggles closer. And lets him hold her, and rub her back. Unbelievable.

Kili gathered Tauriel closer and lightly felt her nose. Cold. He drew out the hood of her overdress, pulled it over her head and tucked the blanket tighter around her. She looked funny, with the end of her braid peeking out of the hood like a tail of a red-brown squirrel, and Kili smiled.

It didn’t change the fact that she was leaving in the morning, and Kili had no idea whatsoever how to stop her or how to later see her again.

 

~~~

“Almost finished,” Hawke declared, looking at the glyph she had drawn on the floor. It was huge, pulsing with low red light. Bard crossed his arms and regarded it somewhat sceptically.

“And what’s missing?” he asked.

Hawke bit her lip. “I miscalculated a bit,” she said. “I can finish it even now, but then I won’t have enough mana later…”

“And mana is…?”

“Magical energy. The ability to draw power from the Fade.”

Bard huffed. “Do I have to pull each word from you? What do you need? You wouldn’t mention it just like that, would you?”

Hawke pursed her lips. It was quite disconcerting how observant that man was. He was right though, but the problem was that Hawke really, really didn’t want to do it. She glanced at the prison glyph, feeling the energies that anchored it in place, the arcane flows that kept it steady and would not permit the spell to collapse. What she needed was to add the element of force field, and for that she needed a bit more mana than she currently had, considering that later, during the battle she would have to use everything she had to the maximum. If she used her blood now, she wouldn’t have enough later.

So, what was on the line? Her promise to a dead rebel? What was that promise worth in this world anyway? It’s not like she could go back and explain things, Hawke reasoned with herself. But it was still despicable.

“I need your help — your lifeblood to finish the spell,” she said.

Bard paled. “So you’re going to kill me. That’s why you brought me here.”

“No! Andraste’s knickers, no, Bard!” Hawke exclaimed, appalled at the idea. “It’s just a small cut! You saw me cut myself in the stables — something like that, no more!”

“Then why did you look so sombre when you asked?” Bard still had doubts.

“Because… Blood magic is considered bad enough, but using the blood of others to boost your spells is something like the next step towards eternal damnation. I’ve never done it before. It’s _wrong_. And I know that it’s wrong, but not finishing this spell and letting Smaug through can’t be right either.”

Bard sighed and pulled up the right sleeve of his coat. He wouldn’t look at her. Hating herself, Hawke took out her dagger and slashed at his forearm, trying to make the cut at such angle that wouldn’t pain him too much when pulling back the bowstring. Already she could feel the dizzy feel of power, her connection to the Fade temporarily enhanced. She wondered if it was worth breaking her promise to Anders. Doing what even Merrill, with her much longer career in blood magic, had always avoided; throwing to the winds the only principle that had let Fenris respect her. Was this strange world worth it? Was Thorin?

With a few well-placed spells, she finished setting up the arcane prison and motioned for Bard to take position behind a broken column flanking the entrance. Hawke hid on the opposite side of the passage. Now they only had to wait.

 

~~~

Kili was dreaming. He was back at home, lying in his bed, and Mother was cooking breakfast. He heard somebody chopping firewood in the yard, and Thorin was shouting something from his room.

Kili was warm. He felt for the thin blanket he used in the summers, and that’s when he noticed he was not alone. He opened one bleary eye, and there, in his bed, in his arms, was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, with large hazel eyes and with red hair flowing like a waterfall over pale, naked shoulders. She smiled at him, and the room filled with sunlight.

Then she reached up, long lashes trembling against creamy skin, and, for one long sacred moment, she pressed her soft lips to his.

“Stay safe, my hunter,” she whispered. “I pray that we meet again.”

 

~~~

Massive, clawed paws sent a barely felt tremor through the stone floor, but the bellow that came from the throne room was so much clearer.

“REVENGE? REVENGE?! I WILL SHOW YOU REVENGE!”

Hawke gulped. Perhaps she _should_ have mentioned that none of the dragons she’d fought were sentient, speaking creatures.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Nan ear adh in elin_ — By the sea and the stars (Sind.)  
>  _ghivash_ — treasure (Khuzd.), but Kili uses it more like some simple "dear".
> 
> Reviewed by iscatterthemintimeandspace!
> 
> I usually don't ask, but comments are actually very, very welcome! :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay, what more can I say. Real life (+investigations of dragon scale properties, Khuzdul cases and trying to get inside the heads of Smaug and Thorin) takes its toll. Now enjoy :)
> 
> Kindly betaed by iscatterthemintimeandspace.

 

_Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him._  
 _Foul and corrupt are they_  
 _Who have taken His gift_  
 _And turned it against His children._  
 _They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones._  
 _They shall find no rest in this world_  
 _Or beyond._

_Canticle of Transfigurations_

 

~~~

 

Even with all her preparations and calculations the ex-Champion of Kirkwall, the notorious blood mage, had been once again too sure of herself. She had underestimated Thorin’s tales of destruction and death that Smaug had wreaked upon Erebor. She had underestimated the sheer size of the dragon.

Enraged and humiliated, fooled by a hobbit and scorched by a dwarf, the monster charged towards the exit, leaving a trail of molten gold behind it. For one short, breath-taking moment, Hawke stood petrified; and then all her plans and strategies were forgotten as instinct took over.

“Eat this, you cave-dwelling worm!” she shouted and unleashed a chain lightning at the dragon before he reached the arcane prison she had set up in front of her. She was a mage, she hit the moment the target came into her range, to cause maximum damage before it reached the melee range, so that… SHIT! She didn’t _have_ anybody in the melee, because this was not fucking Kirkwall!

“Hawke, is this part of your plan?” Bard called to her from across the hall, while the dragon stopped abruptly, caught in the cloud of powerful electric discharge, his massive head thrown back in a snarl of pain.

“No, just old habits!” Hawke called back, and then cursed under her breath. They had given out their positions. Maker, their heads were not nearly cool enough for such fight…

“Men of Laketown at my door?” the dragon roared as the lightning died down, now even more annoyed than before. “You saved me the flight, you gulllible fools, coming to my lair!”

“Good to hear you’re so proud of it, because I’m not letting you out ever again!” Hawke called, hoping to lure the dragon further down the hall.

Smaug spread his wings as far as the hallway permitted it, impatient to go and deal with the treacherous Laketown. He wasn’t interested in talking.

“These walls won’t hold me,” he snarled. “Molten gold does not harm me. How will you stop me, little human?”

Hawke saw Bard pulling back the bow and taking aim. The lightning had concentrated on the left part of the dragon’s chest, and Hawke hoped that from his position Bard had noticed something she hadn’t. There really was only one way how to go about this, and that was to get their plan back on track immediately.

Hawke gulped and stepped out from behind the column, showing herself to the dragon. She jutted out her hip, conjured a ball of light in her hand and forced a smirk on her face.

“We’ll see about that, lizard.”

Smaug turned one golden eye on her, measuring her from boots to the top of her head.

“A misguided sorcerer, at my door? That I had not expected,” he mused in a voice like a rumbling avalanche. “Tell me, girl, why would you want to harm me, when it’s neither your gold, nor your mountain? What has that fool Oakenshield promised you?”

“Why does everybody think something must be promised, to do what is right?” Hawke wondered aloud.

The dragon made a step closer and lowered his head to take a better look at Hawke, curious in spite of his anger.

“And what is right, little sorcerer?” he asked. “Does it feel right to risk your life for somebody you’ve never met?”

Hawke frowned. She hated where this was going, and she could only hope that Bard was making good use of their stalling.

“Oh, so I guessed correctly,” the dragon continued and made another step towards her. Hawke gripped her staff and retreated again.  She could see his chest start to glow, the fire gland finally warmed up from the ice-cold shower Smaug had received at the forges. Blast and damnation, they were so fucked if that dragon does not step on the prison glyph!

“I sense the darkness in you, little sorcerer,” Smaug almost purred, “the same darkness that lies heavy on Thorin Oakenshield’s mind. Why do you fight it? Why do you not reach for the power that is at your fingertips, and rise to greatness in the night that is coming?”

Because I don’t care for greatness, Hawke thought, gritting her teeth and retreating a couple more steps. Whatever that lizard was talking about, there were other things that were more important to her than personal glory. For example, that he came just a bit closer…

“Because I’m too proud,” she spat. “I won’t bend my knee to any nobleman, never mind such abstract concepts as power and greatness. I was born free, Smaug, and I will always fight to remain so.”

“Then be my guest,” the dragon snarled, annoyed at the self-righteous tone of the human. “If you run quickly, you will see me deal with those traitors on the lake, and then I will come back for you and your friends!”

“I won’t let you!” she shouted and raised her arms in a mockery of a block. She knew she looked ridiculous, and that was exactly what she wanted.

The dragon threw back his head and growled in what she supposed was laughter.

“Stop me,” he challenged.

Hawke held her breath as, looking her straight in the eye, Smaug made one step, then another…

“Yes!” she exclaimed, seeing the monster freeze inside the arcane prison, with only his confused reptilian eyes moving frantically. But she already could feel the spell slipping — the dragon was too intelligent, too huge, with too high a resistance to magic.

“Now?” Bard called to her.

“Now!” she answered, slicing her left forearm as deep as she dared and casting the hemorrhage spell on the dragon. She stumbled in sudden dizziness as the most massive spell she had ever unleashed left her almost with nothing. However, no armor could stop the corruption, and Hawke prayed it would work on Smaug too.

Bard released his first arrow, trying to tear off some scales, but the arrow fell harmlessly between the beast’s winged paws. He fired again and again, and as Hawke was busy maintaining the prison and the blood spell, he cautiously moved closer, trying to better see in the gloomy darkness, illuminated by Hawke’s spells.

The mage was starting to panic. The prison was slipping, and her head was spinning, and it was completely impossible to tell whether she was affecting the dragon at all. Smaug’s golden eyes were burning her with such hate as Hawke had never experienced before, and then he slowly moved his right clawed paw out of the boundaries of the prison glyph, and then he started to slowly move the left.

“Hawke, do something!” Bard shouted at her, rising panic clear in his voice.

The mage cursed. She didn’t have the energy, but the dragon was now starting to swish his massive tail and move his jaws. If she was to maintain the prison any longer, ensuring that it didn’t tear a gateway straight to the Fade, letting demons in to join their merry fight, there was only one thing she could do, and she had no time to go about it nicely.

Heart breaking, she hit the archer with the demand for sacrifice.

Bard shouted in pain and fell to his knees, as his lifeblood started to flow to her directly, sharply, brutally. Hawke hadn’t asked this time. She had simply taken what she needed, to get the job done.

“Forgive me, Bard,” she choked out.

Hands shaking, Hawke pulled out her dagger again and sliced deeply, making another incision on her forearm. Without proper healing aids, it would definitely scar, she thought vaguely, as she cast the hemorrhage spell again and then reinforced the prison. The dragon froze, trapped by her magic once more, golden eyes growing dimmer as the spell inexorably corrupted the blood in his veins, slowly killing him without mercy or honour.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bard getting up on unsteady legs and pulling back the bowstring. This time he had nocked the black arrow, and he lowered the bow a few times, too weak to hold it for long. Finally, he made his shot, and Hawke was astonished to see the arrow actually penetrating the dragon’s chest.

Roaring in agony, Smaug broke the prison spell and flapped his huge wings, destroying a couple of columns and raising a cloud of rubble into the air. Hawke and Bard were knocked backwards, and Hawke hit her head on the wall of the gate.

The dragon thrashed as some grotesque snake whose tail has been cut, roaring and cursing all dwarves and men and barrel riders. He threw himself at the remaining columns and walls, making them collapse under his monstrous weight. His struggles became weaker and weaker, and Hawke desperately hoped that he wouldn’t think of stumbling her way, but DAMN he did, he was making his way towards the gate in a last ditch attempt to escape his tormentors, and for one short, terrible moment Hawke was seconds away from taking the last of Bard’s life force, just to finish the dragon and keep her promise — if not to Anders, then at least to Thorin.

Smaug collapsed, his massive snout landing a few steps from where Hawke sat slumped against the wall.

She took a shuddering breath and let her bloody dagger fall from her hand.

They were alive, and Smaug wasn’t.

 

Holding on to the wall, Hawke got up on shaky legs and conjured a weak ball of light to try and find Bard in all the rubble that Smaug had created.

She looked over the destructed entrance hall, the huge carcass of the dragon. She considered walking over and cutting out his fire gland, as a trophy, as a resource, but she didn’t have the strength, and she didn’t have any mage craftsmen waiting for her back in Laketown. It would just rot, together with the rest of Smaug’s body, because nobody knew how to craft powerful amulets from dragon fire glands here in Middle-earth. Nobody knew any healing potions, and mana potions, and nobody knew… Hawke choked back a sob, overcome by the magnitude of what she had done.

Bard was lying in the rubble, one arm bent unnaturally, and a block of stone fallen over his right thigh. He was breathing heavily, eyes closed and face scrunched up in pain. But he was breathing.

“We did it, partner,” Hawke croaked, kneeling down at his side. She tried to push the stone off the bowman’s leg, and after several attempts she succeeded.

“Get away from me…” Bard murmured. “Don’t touch me, foul woman…”

Hawke bit her lip, knowing she deserved it completely. That, and more; and she was grateful for the numbness that had come after the fight.

That’s when she heard heavy boots running down the corridor. She glanced up to see the dwarves coming to a surprised standstill, staring at the dead dragon in disbelief, then starting to argue in agitated voices.

For her, the scene had narrowed down to only one of them: Thorin.

It was lighter where the dwarves were standing, weak starlight from the outside reflected on the hundreds of polished facets of the hewn stone that held up the ceiling. Where the original layout of columns and arches was not destroyed, where the floor tiles were clear of rubble and unbroken, the mountain was illuminated by reflected and re-reflected soft blue-green light.

Leaning on her staff, Hawke stood up and faced Thorin as he came nearer, sword in hand and a disbelieving frown on his face.

“Greetings, my lord,” she said, narrowing her eyes on him. She found it hard to wrap her mind around the idea that this was not the Thorin she knew. He stood taller, his gaze was harder. This was a king who had not yet made the mistakes the other Thorin had bitterly regretted.

“Who are you?” he barked at her, taking in the destruction around them and the injured bowman lying at her feet. “Why is the bargeman here, and what happened to him? How did you kill the dragon?”

Damn it, Thorin, the mage thought, trying to ignore the absurdity of the situation. How many nights had she spent talking with the dwarf in front of her, and now she had to tell him her name? But, no, he was not the same, she repeated to herself again and again. For a second she almost laughed, imagining what Snape must be going through in Kirkwall, dealing with her other self, _and_ the whole concept of mages being an inferior caste.

“I’m… Hawke,” she said. “We feared that your company would unleash the dragon on Laketown. So we followed you and killed the lizard.”

“What happened to the bargeman?”

“He was injured. One arm broken, maybe his leg too. Could be internal bleeding from being knocked into the walls. I’d ask you to help him, Master Thorin, and ask questions later. Please.”

The black-haired dwarf cast her a suspicious glance, but apparently he cared enough for the smuggler to agree with Hawke in this.

“Dwalin, Gloin! Come here and inspect Master Bard! Nori and Dori, you too!” he ordered. Even at her best, Hawke would not have noticed the secret sign Thorin gave to the dwarves.

The mage closed her eyes, leaning on her staff with both hands, lest her legs gave out from the exhaustion of the last few days. Finally, part one of her task was completed. Now she could sleep and rest for a bit, and then think about the next part — how to convince this new Thorin to be reasonable towards the demands of Laketown and Thranduil, to forge an alliance with them before an orc army appears on his doorstep…

Hawke yelped when the staff was suddenly torn from her, and her hands were twisted and tied behind her back. One of the dwarves, the bald one, used her surprise and tiredness to jerk her down on her knees and tie a scarf over her eyes.

“Hey, what are you doing?” she shouted. This was wrong! Why were they attacking her?

Hawke panicked. She instinctively reached for her last scraps of mana and sent a wave of mind blast around her — she didn’t need her staff for that, but from not hearing any thumps of bodies being thrown away from her, she had to guess that the dwarves of Middle-earth were even more resistant to magic than those of Thedas.

“As you suggested, we will be asking questions later,” she heard Thorin say.

Even without the knitted scarf over her eyes, Hawke’s vision was turning to black, and she barely had the strength to hold herself upright on her knees.

She vaguely felt someone taking the dagger from her belt and lightly running their hands over her to check for more weapons. Then she was jerked up on her feet and led away, supported from both sides by strong hands and shoulders.

After that, she didn’t remember anything.

~~~

Having sent the rest of the company away with the strange woman and the bowman, Thorin slowly walked up to the gold-splattered carcass that now took up half of the entrance hall. For a long while he simply stared at it.

It seemed unthinkable, that the monstrosity who had defined a full generation of Durin’s Folk could be dead, by the hands of only two people no less. It bordered on the impossible.

The black arrow sticking out of a nasty burn on the dragon’s chest did not explain it sufficiently. It was a wonder that the bowman had noticed the one missing scale in spite of the darkness, and that he had had an old Ereborian arrow with him. But it was embedded at an angle, not nearly as deep as it should have gone to pierce through the dragon’s heart. Something was not adding up, or maybe it was just the mind-boggling improbability of this outcome.

Thorin walked around to the dragon’s head, its large golden eyes blind forever. For him, and thousands of others, Smaug meant so much more than simply a great fire drake of the North.

Here in the front hall — Thorin’s front hall now — lay the reason the vast halls of his ancient home were filled with nothing but echoes, the majestic pillars broken, the proud, artful rhythm of their geometric patterns destroyed beyond repair. Here lay the root of all the suffering of his people, the cursed reason many had perished on the battlements, in flames, hunger and sickness, claimed by treacherous torrents and swamps, lost to orcs and wolves on their long road to the Blue Mountains.

They hadn’t come here intending to fight the dragon. They had come to get the Arkenstone, to try and unite the dwarf houses and then take the mountain back with an army of allies. Or, to at least ascertain whether the dragon was still alive in the first place, and then think of something. Thorin had relied heavily on Gandalf’s gut feeling and his own sheer luck.

But entering the mountain and touching the massive stone walls, seeing once more the wealth of his ancestors, the dizzying height of the pillars, all he could think of was that this was his rightful place, this was the home of his people. All this prosperity should have been his to rule over, never to worry about survival again, but instead concentrating on the growth of Durin’s Folk, working on new alloys, crafting priceless necklaces and sturdy battle axes. The reminder of what they had lost, and the tragedy of all those who had died in the attack, had made him want to strangle the dragon with his bare hands.

Suddenly overwhelmed, the crownless king picked up in both hands some jagged piece of a column. He hurled it at the scaly snout of the dragon with all his might, and a few smaller scales bent and broke.

“That is for Erebor,” he roared and heaved up another stone. “That is for the long road through Dunland!” In white fury, he threw the broken piece of granite at the dragon, then another and another.

“That’s for Azanulbizar!” he cried. “That’s for Frerin and my father, and that’s for my grandfather, and that’s for the saddler and her little boy, and that’s for my friends. That’s for the dead at the western guardroom. That’s for all my sister’s threadbare dresses and blistered hands, for all the times Kili’s had to abandon his studies and go hunt in the mountains, for all the pans and spits and hooks Fili has forged, when he should have been working gold! And that’s for all we’ve lost on this quest!”

In his long-suppressed anguish, Thorin didn’t care what he looked like, throwing head-sized stones at a dead dragon, when he was supposed to act like a king that’s come home. Thanks to Smaug, this _was_ the king he’d become — in borrowed clothes and with a laughably poor sword at his side, more blacksmith than _uzbad Zesululabadu_.

In the end, Thorin collapsed on Smaug’s scaly snout, fists clenched and hair dishevelled. His breath was ragged from the exhaustion and his blind, pointless rage, his hands dirty and cut. He banged a fist against the dragon’s scales and choked back a sob.

“Damn you, Smaug! Damn you to the eternity…”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _uzbad Zesululabadu_ — king/lord onto the Lonely Mountain (Khuzd.)
> 
> *sniff*  
> Physics is not my forte, but if you're curious as to what exactly happened, then my reasoning is that gold, especially molten (gold melting point 1064 °C) is a good conductor, while beta-keratin, of which dragon and other reptile scales are/would be made of, being a protein and an insulator, does not conduct electricity well. When Hawke hit Smaug with chain lighting, it naturally concentrated on the single non-keratin-clad spot it could find, illuminating it for Bard, but also blinding him a bit. That's why it took him some time to hit it. So, an electrocuted chest topped with an arrow in the heart (even if not through it, as Thorin obeserved)... Go figure which of the two has earned the laurel wreath.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A-a-and I proudly present you another helping of problems, because fluff is apparently not my forte ^^
> 
> Kindly reviewed and checked by iscatterthemintimeandspace. She's wonderful. Also, she can write fluff.
> 
> And another huge thank you goes to all who leave a comment (or just boost the hit counter)! :)  
> I reread them now and then, and it really keeps me going when I'm on Ch13, page 61 in my Word file, and there's _still_ no BoFA in sight, and a bunch of side-projects, continuations, alternatives, deviations and derivations are creeping up and demanding I finish this first. You're so awesome for reading this crazy cross-over!

 

* * *

 

Kili slowly blinked his eyes open. He wasn’t exactly cold or uncomfortable in the damp moss, and even the thigh wound didn’t bother him anymore. What he felt instead was a strange, distinct feeling of loss, and it took him a moment to understand the cause of it — the willowy elf that had been sleeping on his shoulder, legs sticking out from under the blanket, simply wasn’t there anymore.

The young dwarf slowly sat up, leaning forward and resting his head in his hands. The reality of the morning hit him hard. Kili tried to hold on to the scraps of his dream, the lazy summer morning back home, but that, too, was dissolving like mist when faced with the painful reality.

She had left without a word, but what did he expect her to say? So long, and thanks for the blanket? There were no meaningful gestures she could have made, no words she could have said that his heart longed to hear. She had been looking for warmth, and she had said some things he would treasure as long as he lived, but she was still an elf, and he a dwarf. She didn’t see him that way.

Kili took an uneven breath. He had swallowed many disappointments and rejections in life, but Tauriel was not somebody he would ever be able to get over and forget. He was hers, mind, body and soul, if only she’d want him.

“Hey, Kili, come here!” his brother called from the fire some fifty paces away, ladling something into a wooden bowl and holding it out for him. “Sigrid’s been up early, and she made us breakfast!”

Bofur and Oin nodded too, mouths full and eyes twinkling in appreciation. “If you don’t want it, I’ll take seconds,” Bofur laughed.

Kili growled and got up. “Coming!” he called. “Don’t you dare eat my food!”

Counting to ten, he slowly exhaled and slapped on his usual mask of the carefree young archer. He didn’t want any questions about his bad mood, and there was nothing he could do about the elf anyway, save lock her in his heart, throw away the key and move on as if nothing had happened. The only small grace he could see was that perhaps she had left early enough, before anybody had noticed them in the morning light. Otherwise, he’d never hear the end of it from his companions.

Fortunately, he was still some thirty steps from the fire, temporarily hidden by the trees, when, raking his hand through his shaggy hair, his fingers snagged on a small bead at the back of his head. Kili stopped so abruptly he almost tripped.

It was impossible.

Fingers shaking, Kili carefully touched it again. The bead was small, metallic, with filigree carvings. It didn’t hold a braid, just a lock of his hair, and it was hidden in his messy mane where nobody would normally see it. With that one bead, Kili’s world had turned upside down, and he had to lean on a tree to let the dizziness pass, lest he just slumped to the ground. There could be only one explanation as to its origin, but there were two as to its purpose.

He had no idea whether Tauriel knew what symbolism hair ornaments held for dwarves, but even if she had meant it only as a friendly memento, Kili knew, and the tiny chance that _she did_ made his head spin. A dwarf could be in love all he wanted — if the lady in question rejected him, then that was the end of it. There was no insisting or winning somebody over, not with the women being so few and the whole community so close-knit and interconnected. But if she said yes, if she agreed to a man’s advances, then her choice was law, and even a king could do nothing about it. To present her intended with any jewellery, especially hair or beard ornaments was a promise as much as a claim.

Knowing that, Kili’s heart was breaking. He hit the rough bark of the tree, choking back a sob and skinning his knuckles. Oh, this was beyond cruel! To have such a promise put in his hair, only to know, to be fully and utterly sure that Tauriel had not known what it meant. To hope beyond hope that she had. Mahal, how he wanted to see her again, if only to ask that one question! To hear that one simple ‘you must be joking’, and maybe, possibly, find strength to move on. Anything but this ambiguity, which tempted with hope in spite of all reason, and only prolonged the inevitable!

“Kili, where are you?” his brother called from the fire impatiently. “Your porridge is getting cold, and nobody’s going to re-heat it for you!”

Kili rested his head against the tree, reminded that this was neither time, nor place for an emotional breakdown. His brother needed him. Bard’s children needed him too, especially now that the elves were gone. He couldn’t fall apart now. Kili straightened, taking a shuddering breath and quickly wiping his eyes and cheeks. What did it matter anyway? Objectively speaking, he was exactly where he had been ten minutes before, except now he had a confusing but probably well-intentioned bead in his hair. Perhaps it held some meaning for the elf. Kili sniffled and smiled, remembering it holding the leaf-like braid on top of Tauriel’s head.

“ _Amabel’ana_ ,” he whispered, touching the delicate silver band. “My impossible little squirrel…”

~~~

Tauriel ran, the forest a grey-green blur racing past her. She enjoyed the cool air of early morning, the fog in her face, the dewy rocks and moss beneath her feet. She was strong, young and agile, flying along the river path like an arrow, her hair once again flowing loose down her back, and even Legolas, the best archer in Mirkwood and the Captain of the Scouts, was having hard time keeping up with her.

“You run as if you’re counting on a hearty welcome,” he called. “Have you thought what to say to my father?”

“I have,” she responded with a laugh.

“You’re still suspiciously happy…”

“We did a good job, Legolas, and now we’re returning home,” she said. “And maybe your father will have changed his mind about the spiders, so we could go and destroy the nests once and for all. If Hawke and the dwarves fail in killing Smaug, then Laketown is secured as best as it can be. And if they succeed, we get our old neighbours back, and things will get better both for Laketown and the Realm…”

“I’m still not sure they can do it, and I’m also not sure my father would be all that pleased to see the dwarves returning to Erebor… They are, of course, better than a fire-breathing dragon…”

“And there you have it,” Tauriel laughed, sprinting along as if she didn’t have a care in the world. “They are better than a dragon, so what’s not to like?”

The red-head smiled, leaping over a log and tucking a strand of hair behind her pointy ear. Upon leaving, she had taken something from the dwarf archer, and left something of her own with him. Tauriel wanted to see him again, and she thought she would. Right now, she had a good feeling about everything, not just her King’s welcome.

Behind her back, Legolas could only shake his head and frown, and run a bit faster.

~~~

“ _Kili, we’re thinking of a change in the plans_ ,” his brother told him, scooting closer and switching to Khuzdul. Mouth full with porridge, Kili nodded at him to continue. Bofur was also listening attentively.

“ _I know that previously we wanted to get the children to their grandfather’s old house a couple miles from the shore, leave Bofur and Oin with them and then go to Erebor. But I was thinking that it doesn’t make much sense,_ ” Fili quietly explained. Kili shook his head and shrugged. He couldn’t remember whose idea it had been in the first place, but he agreed that it was not the best. He glanced up at Bofur and noticed a shadow of embarrassment. So it was Bofur’s then.

“ _The gates are still closed, and my guess is that Bard is still missing,_ ” Fili continued, boring his younger brother with his gaze. “ _If they wait for the nightfall, they might get inside the way we left, but they don’t have anybody there to look after them. So that’s a no. Neither do I like the idea of us splitting up even more, so what do you say we take that boat and go to Erebor all together?_ ”

Kili thought about it for a moment.

“ _It would be safer for the kids,_ ” he finally said. “ _In a way they are our responsibility for the moment, and it really doesn’t make sense to leave them in a forest where nobody can see the lake and know what’s going on. And there could be other orcs in these woods._ ”

“ _So you agree?_ ” Fili asked to confirm.

“ _Aye. Tell them, Bofur,_ ” Kili asked the other dwarf, nodding at Bain and the girls, who were packing up and warily watching the exchange in the strange language. The toy-maker, relieved that there was now a better solution agreed, got up and left the two brothers.

Having finished eating, Kili sat up cross-legged and pulled to his side the empty cast iron pot, which the dwarves had filled with water to let it soak for a bit. Kili rolled up his sleeves, picked up a brush and started to scrub it. He needed to do something, to keep his thoughts from wandering off where they shouldn’t.

“Thank you, Fee,” Kili muttered.

Fili meanwhile had pulled out his pipe and stretched out near the dying embers. “What for?” he wondered.

Kili shrugged. “For asking, I guess. Over the last few months with Uncle, I had almost forgotten how it felt to make any decisions.”

“Me too,” Fili admitted with an embarrassed chuckle. “I was paralyzed with fear when he left and we discovered you were so ill. I could barely think straight. And then this Tauriel shows up, saves your life and starts issuing orders as if she owns the place. I was so relieved to follow a clear plan, even though it was incepted by an elf.”

“Mhm,” Kili grumbled. So much for his plan.

“I was thinking about what Thorin said,” Fili continued in a lower voice. “That I would be king one day. I would have to make decisions like that. How does one learn it?”

Kili paused in his work, staring off into space and remembering his evenings at the kitchen table back home, calculating, discussing, re-calculating. He knew very well how to decide on resources and strategy, he just didn’t, not when Thorin was around anyway. And of course he remembered Tauriel, how she had effortlessly balanced being in command and stepping back trustingly, to allow him to take the lead and solve the problem. It had felt so natural with her, to simply do things together.

“You learn when there’s nobody else to decide for you. When you have the opportunity and the responsibility,” he said.

“I think you’re better at it than I am,” Fili admitted somewhat sadly.

“I’ve been on my own more than you have. I made the small decisions around the house when Amad had other things to do. I planned my route in the forest, so I wouldn’t be stuck with a dead elk miles from home before nightfall. I calculated the loads on the rafters of the barn and adjusted the supports accordingly. It was my responsibility then. You, on the other hand, have always spent more time with Uncle — as his apprentice, as his travel companion and heir. And it’s hard to make your own decisions around Thorin. He’s our king. He takes command instinctively and immediately. But you have your chance now, Fee. Take it.”

Fili nodded thoughtfully. The blond’s things were already packed, and Kili could see Bain bringing back his dark blue blanket, which he had forgotten in the forest. Kili sighed.

“What do you think happened in Erebor?” Fili suddenly asked. “Do you think they succeeded in getting the Arkenstone without waking Smaug?”

“Looks like that, yeah,” Kili agreed. At least, he couldn’t think of any other explanation for Smaug’s absence the previous night. Except… “Maybe they missed the last light of Durin’s Day,” he said. “Maybe the key didn’t work.”

“Then we’ll meet them on their way back.”

“Shouldn’t they be going to the Iron Hills in such case? Get help from Dain Ironfoot, try something else?”

Fili smirked bitterly and shook his head. “I don’t think Thorin has a backup plan. I think he’s put all his eggs in this one basket called Bilbo Baggins.”

“And if our burglar fails…”

“Then we walk away with one fourteenth of nothing,” Fili concluded, putting away his pipe and getting up.

“Then we walk away with our lives, and return home to our loved ones,” Kili corrected, also putting away the brush and getting up. “Help me haul this to the boat?”

“Of course, brother.”

~~~

Tauriel’s happy feeling didn’t last very long.

She wasn’t slapped in irons and thrown into a dungeon the moment she stepped into the Halls. Even her weapons were not taken from her. Nevertheless, she was politely and immediately escorted straight to the King, flanked on both sides by her own two deputies, and Tauriel knew that any fighting or trying to escape would be futile.

However, if the last couple of days had taught her something, it was that sometimes it paid to think of a strategy before a verbal fight as well as a physical.

“You dare show your face here again?” Thranduil hissed, half risen from his throne in anger, his slender, ringed fingers clutching the hand supports. “You defy my orders, leave my Halls unguarded, and endanger the life of my son, and for what? To try and save some greedy, stupid dwarf?”

“Father,” Legolas interrupted, coming up to Tauriel’s side. “I followed Tauriel of my own free will. It was my decision, and I take full responsibility for it. And it’s not like the Halls were left unprotected: her deputies and guards are well trained, as are my scouts.”

Thranduil turned his icy gaze towards the prince. It looked for a moment as if he wanted to slap him, but of course the Sindar lord wouldn’t do that to his fiercely beloved son.

“I will speak to you later, Legolas,” he finally said. Recognizing that no further objections would be tolerated, Legolas shot one last glance at Tauriel and then reluctantly left the throne room.

Tauriel didn’t even blink as she stared at her King, even though her chest ached from all the possible retorts she had just swallowed.

“You told me, and I quote: ‘Leave. Go now,’” she said calmly and with respect. “I only did as you wished, my Lord. Seeing as the order was given right after an orc hostage admitted to attacking our prisoners, I took it to mean you wished that orc raid to be dealt with immediately. Which I have done.”

“I have never asked you to interpret my words, Captain. You have always been given very clear instructions. What made you think this was different?” Thranduil asked, sitting back in the throne, either admitting the ambiguity of his own words, or somewhat pacified by Tauriel’s unusually reverent attitude. Maybe he was just relieved to get his son back unscathed.

Tauriel watched him attentively. Those were tricky questions. For a short, crazy moment, she was tempted to throw all reserve out the window and just fall to his feet and beg for forgiveness, but then she remembered the callous words that had followed right after his order, and she pursed her lips and stood straighter.

“My first and foremost job is to guard and protect, my King,” she said. “In the absence of more detailed instructions, that is what I do. I followed those orcs and, together with Legolas, we killed them. Even more than that — we secured Laketown against a potential attack by Smaug, when the town’s Master did nothing to this effect. If the dragon comes, the people will be ready, and escape routes have been prepared and explained. You allies will be as safe as they can be, my Lord.”

Thranduil crossed his legs and stroked his chin, looking at his Captain of the Guard through narrowed, cold eyes.

“Your first and foremost job is within the Woodland Realm,” he said. “You would do well to remember that, as well as to curb any unsolicited initiatives. And leave my son out of your… interpretations.”

Tauriel permitted her a small sigh of relief. It sounded like she was almost out of trouble.

“However,” Thranduil continued, narrowing his eyes in suspicion, “I do find myself curious as to how you arranged this escape plan, with only Legolas to assist you, and what happened on our river path.”

“The river path?” Tauriel asked in confusion.

“Yes. I mean the ten or so inexplicably dead orcs that your own guards had to deal with after you left.”

Tauriel paled. She hadn’t wanted to tell him about Hawke, because she herself didn’t know what to think of her. She could be dangerous, or she could be their saviour. Tauriel remembered also the fleeting sense of darkness that she had felt around her, and knew that her guards had probably felt it too. She tried to remain calm as she glanced up at Thranduil. He was still her King, wise and powerful. She might not always agree with him, especially lately, but he was her King, and that meant a lot to Tauriel.

She glanced around at the few courtiers, scribes and musicians loitering along the walls, and noticing her look, Thranduil quickly dismissed them with an imperious gesture. When the carved wooden door closed behind the last of them, he looked at his Captain inquisitively.

“Speak. What happened by the river?”

Drawing a deep breath and wondering if she was doing the right thing, Tauriel told him everything that had happened over the last couple of days that she had been gone. She put as much emphasis on her and Legolas as she could, glossing over the parts that involved Kili and the other dwarves. She told him about Hawke’s magic, about Bard, about the escape plan and the fact that Master had closed all gates. She told him about the night raid, how she and Legolas had dealt with the remaining orcs. She wasn’t sure he believed her, and she prayed to the Valar he didn’t ask anything about Kili, but there it was.

The Elvenking was listening attentively, staring off into space and stroking his chin every now and then. Tauriel could see him already making plans, building strategies, calculating and considering what his next move would be.

“So the dwarves are getting help from some human wizard?” he asked. “And you are quite confident that she would manage to kill Smaug the Terrible?”

Tauriel nodded. “From the way she dealt with those orcs, I think she would.”

“Then we’re sending scouts to Erebor immediately,” he said, rising up from the throne and turning to go. “I must speak with Legolas. I trust you can pass the instructions to his deputy?”

Tauriel exhaled, feeling the weight of fear lift off her shoulders.

“So I’m not exiled?” she blurted out and immediately regretted it as her King looked back at her peculiarly.

“Why would I exile you,” he wondered. “You’re a good captain, and a good fighter. I would not put the safety of my realm above personal thoughts and preferences.”

Tauriel clenched her fists at the subtle barb, wrapped equally in praise and venom. She was instantly reminded of the last time they had spoken, when he had said that he’d never allow anything between his son and her. He valued her, but once more he reminded her of her place.

The King was almost at the door to the royal quarters when he stopped and glanced back at Tauriel again.

“However,” he drawled, “since you seem to feel the need for a punishment, I am revoking your autumn pay for leaving the security of my Halls in the hands of all sorts of inadequate replacements. I also expect you to get your guard ready for a march on Erebor within two days from now, and answer all the complaints and correspondence that no doubt have collected on your desk. Consider yourself on double duty, until I say otherwise. I think that is all, Captain.”

Tauriel opened her mouth to protest, and then shut it again, as her King’s silk train disappeared around the doorway. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She wasn’t exiled, but she wasn’t paid either. He wanted to march on Erebor. She was supposed to send out the scouts. He was unhappy with her deputies. Why? What had happened in her absence? What was this about complaints on her desk?

Confused and overwhelmed, Tauriel rushed out of the throne room to look for Edhel, Gwaechanar and Siron. She needed reports. She also needed Galion to do a weapons and armour inventory, and she had to issue orders that everything was to be replaced, fixed, polished, straightened and patched. Gwileth could take care of the winter forms, and Taenor would have to start preparing the provisions. Suddenly, she had so much to do that the last two days seemed like a relaxing holiday.

Banging on the butler’s door and listing in her mind all the things that needed to be checked and arranged, Tauriel could only hope that she hadn’t made a terrible mistake in telling her King about Hawke, and that he knew what he was doing.

She hoped that, whatever happens, her aunt’s silver bead would protect the dwarven archer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _amabel’ana_ — my dream of all dreams (Khuzd.)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A potpourri of emotions because nobody told Middle-earth that angst or strategy, or fluff should come in convenient chapter-length packages...

* * *

 

 

Having never been one to lounge about, Thorin had got up early, despite the exhaustion from the previous day.

“Bombur and Bilbo, assess what provisions we have, then go and see if there’s anything salvageable left on the ledge. Gloin, you go and relieve Dwalin. Ori, Balin and the rest — check the external fortifications and report back to me. I want to know every hole in our walls and every corridor that’s been blocked or caved in.”

Thorin was terse, wound tight like a coil. He was completely focussed. Now that the dwarves had miraculously reclaimed the mountain — or somebody had done it for them — it had to be safeguarded before any opportunists showed up. He wasn’t going to lose it again.

This was a dwarf kingdom and dwarf gold, Thorin swore to himself, walking briskly down the corridors from the cramped, dusty room they had slept in. Nobody was ever going to take their wealth from them again, and it had nothing to do with gold sickness. As long as he had the Arkenstone, he didn’t care if the whole treasury was turned into an endless grain or sable fur equivalent of the gold it currently housed.

Thorin was relieved to see Nori still wide awake and watching the door, with Dori presumably inside with his patient. Sending his acquisitions specialist off to some well-deserved rest, Thorin cracked the door open and stepped into the room.

“How is the bargeman?” he quietly asked the white-haired dwarf who was fussing with Bard’s blanket.

“Looks like the lad’s been thrown about quite a bit,” Dori grumbled, straightening up and wiping his forehead in a handkerchief. “I do wish we had Oin with us — I fear the valiant young man has some internal bleeding, and I am no healer, to treat that.”

Thorin nodded curtly as he came closer. “What about his leg and arm?” he asked.

“Both bandaged and splintered to the best of my ability. I suspect the thigh bone might be cracked. The arm, unfortunately, is broken. Again, my skills fall short…”

“Oin was correct to stay in Laketown,” Thorin said quietly. “The whole town could have been destroyed. The casualties there would have severely outweighed any casualties we might have suffered here.”

“But Oin could not have known that Smaug would wake up and try to attack the town…”

“He did his duty,” Thorin said, ending the conversation. That Oin had stayed because of Kili, remained unsaid between the two. “Go and rest now. You did a good job, Dori.”

After the door closed behind his kinsman, Thorin sighed and looked the bargeman over once more. He was sleeping, turning his head restlessly as if dreaming. His breath was uneven, and there was sweat on the man’s brow.

Carefully, Thorin peeled off the blanket. The two brothers charged with the task of healing had stripped off the bargeman’s tunic to bandage some cuts in his side, and the deep purple bruise that had Dori so concerned was easily discernible on the Lakeman’s pale skin.

Thorin frowned, his hand lightly hovering over the injury. He was no specialist, but in his quite long and uneasy life he had never seen such bruises forming from internal bleeding. Instead, he remembered quite well where he _had_ seen something similar — on his own sister-son’s neck, the morning after the last spring festival in Ered Luin. Oh, how embarrassed Fili had been when Thorin had asked about that. The lad had blanched, then blushed, and then worn a scarf for a week.

But to leave suction marks as large and violent as these would require much more than a hot-blooded lass.

Displeased that the visit had left him with more questions than answers, Thorin covered the bargeman again and exited the room in a huff, leaving the key with Bifur. His next task was to find the pair’s belongings. Perhaps those would explain something.

 

~~~

Hawke was lying on a thin, mouldy mattress, staring at the ceiling. She had no idea how long she had slept or what time of the day it was. She had heard a wooden door fall shut at some point, but the cell she was in now had a barred metal door. Apparently the dwarves had relocated her once they had found their prisons relatively intact. The majority of her armor was removed, leaving only what qualified as clothes. Her weapons were gone, her staff was gone, even her necklaces — a gold family medallion, an old key and an Imperial Chantry amulet — were taken from her.

Her left forearm was accurately bandaged, and she cradled it against her chest.

She was hollowed, numb. That spell — a blood mage’s final fall from grace — had come so easily to her. She had taken another person’s blood against his will. It didn’t matter that she had used that power to protect the people of Laketown or to help the dwarves. It hadn’t been hers to take, and by overstepping that line she had destroyed something she had always thought was a core part of her, something that made her Marian Hawke.

She despised herself.

And still, she was alive. An empty shell at the moment, clawing at her memories of more innocent days, of days when she still had Anders, and Anders had his neat black-and-white answers to all the questions in the world, but still — she breathed, she ached, she existed.

Who was she now? How could she go on, how could she trust herself? With this basic moral restriction gone, who was to say she won’t reach for the forbidden power again? As the dragon had said, there was darkness inside her, and now there was nothing holding it back anymore. Hawke was a blood mage, there was no more place for greys and half-truths.

She felt lonely. As far as she knew, she was the only mage in Middle-earth, except Tharkûn. There was nobody who would understand how the arcane flows felt different from the gravitic flows, how a mind blast worked, or how empowering it felt to cast a rain of fire upon your enemies.

Lying on her back, Hawke raised her right hand and conjured a ball of golden light. It was one of the first things she had learned as a child. The ball sparkled like a diamond star, with golden and silvery hues mingling and mesmerizing. Hawke smiled.

She missed magic — the amulets, lyrium and the runes of warding. She missed the almost constant feeling of Fade that had been a trademark of Kirkwall, with its bloody past and thin veil between the worlds. She missed Merrill with her naïve musings and devastating spells, and Sandal with his wild enchantments. For a moment she even missed the demons whispering in her head.

She missed Anders most of all. It was agony to know that she would never feel his healing touch again, never fight side by side with him. The apostate had stood for all mages. He had represented magic itself.

And Hawke had failed him utterly and completely. She had betrayed him.

Looking back, she couldn’t believe she had let him off the hook so easily. To be content with “You would not thank me if I told you” had been a coward’s way out. She thought that subconsciously she must have known he’d been planning something desperate; known and chosen to ignore it, because she hadn’t wanted to get involved in his personal war with the Chantry.

She had also underestimated him. For years, Anders had been involved with the mage underground, but although she loved him deeply, she had believed him to be too unorganized, too idealistic to cause any real damage.

Hawke should have gone to the grand cleric with her suspicions immediately. She was a Champion, and a noblewoman — surely her status would have protected him. She could have prevented the deaths of hundreds, maybe even thousands of people, the destruction of the Kirkwall chantry and the outbreak of the massacre. Instead Hawke had failed both in her role as a Champion, and in her role as a friend and partner. She had become lax, inattentive. She had readily believed Anders’ lies, thinking everything would end in a golden sunset and butterflies, completely ignoring his nihilistic martyr tendencies.

Killing him had not been justice — it had been the ultimate betrayal. It meant admitting that there was no going back from this ever. It meant that she believed there was no redemption for him, and no forgiveness.

Hawke drew a shaky breath, feeling tears running silently down her temples. So many people had died. Fenris had died, because he wouldn’t side with the mages. Varric, Aveline and Donnic had lost their homes, jobs, everything. Merrill probably had died in the Tal-Vashoth attack, same as Hawke, although neither of them should have been on that coast.

None of this should have happened in the first place, and Hawke could only pray that her success in Middle-earth would somehow ensure Snape’s success in Kirkwall — there had to be at least one reality where the chantry remained standing and Anders remained alive. She refused to believe that his death was something universally pre-destined.

It had been just her giving up on him too soon.

 

~~~

Kili narrowed his eyes at the fox that was lying in the afternoon sun on a small mound where it probably had its hole. It was the third fox he saw that day. The archer had dismissed the first, shot the second and now wondered if there was something severely wrong with the land. Apart from it being Smaug’s Desolation, that is. How come the east side of the lake was full of foxes? Kili hadn’t noticed any small rodents or birds in the sickly, crooked trees. What did they eat? Earthworms?

He probably should have dug up some and made a simple fishing rod for Sigrid or Tilda. Then they might have fish soup.

“Kili, you can’t eat fox. You said we were going to shoot something for the supper,” Bain whispered at his side, their shoulders touching as both archers crouched behind the bushes.

“You can eat fox. Not very tasty, though,” Kili corrected him. “Plus, it takes an eternity to cook.”

“Then why?”

The dwarf shrugged. “You see anything else here?” The boy shook his head in dismay. Kili nodded, not taking his eyes off the resting animal.

Straightening up noiselessly and pulling back his bow, he quickly assessed his mark — a bit smallish, but with a nice thick fur, already grown out before the winter. Together with the one he already got, it should be sufficient for a stew; if not for this evening then for the next day.

The bowstring twanged as Kili released it. The fox tried to scramble, but already the arrow was deep in its chest — the critter died in seconds.

Bain let out the breath he’d been holding and got up to bring the fox over to Kili.

“Now we go back?” he asked.

“Aye, now we go back,” Kili agreed, removing his arrow, checking its tip and then throwing both foxes over his shoulder. “Let’s start the supper before the boat catches up to us.”

 

~~~

Having dozed off sitting against the wall, Hawke was woken by a metal door creaking shut and by heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. She turned her head.

“I found your horses and things,” Thorin announced, coming into the torch-lit circle in front of her cell. He pulled a rickety stool out from a corner and sat down, upending her sack in front of him. Hawke watched him as he quickly sorted through her things — a tinderbox, a whetstone, some leather cord, needle and thread, her leather-bound journal and a couple of carrots she had nicked in the Master’s stables.

“No food, no bedrolls, no warm clothes or spare weapons? Did you leave in a hurry?”

Hawke nodded and then cleared her throat. “Yes. We wanted to be sure we arrived before nightfall, and we were very short of time.”

“Why did you follow me?” Thorin asked, piercing her with his blue gaze.

“I told you. I was concerned that you would unleash the dragon on Laketown, and I wanted to help you avoid it.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to help you!”

“You said that already. I asked why.”

Hawke groaned, resting her head against the wall. She had had no idea the dwarf could be this difficult.

“I don’t need your gold,” she assured him. “I don’t need anything from you, Thorin. I came to help you, because I know you’ll fuck up and regret it bitterly if you don’t listen to me!”

Thorin raised an eyebrow at her language and then started flipping through her journal. He couldn’t read the script. It was neither Cirth, nor Tengwar, which were used in slightly different variations for all the major languages of Middle-earth. Even the Black Speech used Cirth. So what was this, and why were there crude drawings on the margins? And a whole sheaf of papers that looked like… lists?

“Thorin, I know it sounds crazy, but hear me out,” the mage pleaded with him, standing up and coming over to the bars. She crouched down to better look him in the eyes. “I died. You died. In another world, in a different timeline you fucked up and died, together with lots of other people, your nephews included. We met in the afterlife — not in the Halls of Mandos but in some other place — and made a pact. We agreed that I would come back to Middle-earth and try to set things right. So here I am, and Smaug is dead, and the only problem I see is that you have thrown me into a dungeon!”

Thorin ignored her like you’d ignore any babbling, safely contained madman, but something in her words was making him uneasy. He glanced at her over the top of the journal, and suddenly got a feeling that he _had_ seen her before. Her name was on the tip of his tongue. Not Hawke, but another name.

“Lies and heresy,” he said, turning back to the leather-bound volume in his hands. “There is no afterlife other than the Halls of Mandos, or the stone our forefathers were born from. The only problem I see is that you won’t confess who you serve and what your motives are.”

Hawke grit her teeth. “I don’t serve anybody. I came of my own free will, and almost died in the process. Bard almost died!”

“Oh, you think he’s still alive, then?”

The woman gasped and stared at Thorin. “He can’t be dead! I didn’t… I couldn’t have taken so much…”

Now that was interesting, Thorin mused. Why did she think she was somehow responsible for the bargeman’s state? Did she have something to do with that strange bruise? Who was she anyway? Why was a lone woman wandering the North, armed with a glaive and a knife? Why couldn’t he shake the feeling that he had met her before, when his memory of faces and names had never failed him before?

He was about to toss away the useless journal and think of something else, to get the answers from her, but then his hand stopped, because right there in the middle of the page was a map of Mirkwood. It was annotated in Westron Cirth in his own handwriting, and apparently translated into the strange language by the owner of the journal.

Thorin snapped the volume closed.

“Thorin, please tell me about Bard!” Hawke implored him, clutching the bars in a white-knuckled grip. “You have to tell me!”

“I don’t have to do anything,” the dwarf retorted, getting up and tucking her journal under his arm. “You are in my mountain.”

Hawke threw herself at the bars, desperate to stop him. “You can’t just leave me here and go!” she yelled. “Why don’t you even ask me anything? How can I prove to you that I’m telling the truth?”

“I don’t trust you,” Thorin replied simply. “You haven’t answered even the first two of my questions — who you serve and why you followed me — so why should I believe anything you say?”

“I told you, and I swear to you it is all true!” Hawke shouted as he turned to leave. “Thorin! Don’t walk away now! Listen to me! Thorin, people are going to die if you don’t ally yourself with Laketown and the elves!”

The dwarf stopped right before the corridor bent, leading to the stairs. He clenched his fists and turned around, blue eyes burning in long-borne hatred.

“I knew this had something to do with Thranduil!” he snarled, pointing an accusing finger at Hawke. “Oh, now I understand…”

“No, you fool, you don’t understand anything!”

“Watch your tongue, lass!”

“This has nothing to do with the elves!”

“From the very beginning, this has had _everything_ to do with the elves! If Thranduil hadn’t turned his back on our ancient alliance when we needed it the most…”

“Thorin! There’s an army of orcs marching on Erebor, and you will die, your whole line will die if you don’t stand with the men and the elves!” Hawke threw herself at the bars in anger and despair. “How can I make you believe me? How!? Your nephew, who you left in Laketown, almost died from the morgul shaft he was pierced with! You want to finish that orc’s job with your stubbornness? Did you know that an elf’s good will and healing powers is the sole reason Kili is still alive? Or that your greed is going to force Bilbo to use the Arkenstone against you, to trade it to the elves if you won’t be reasoned with otherwise?”

Thorin grit his teeth and narrowed his eyes at her — at Marian. He had to tighten his grasp on the journal to hide the shaking of his hands. He hadn’t known Kili’s wound was so grave. He didn’t know what to think about the elf. As for the Arkenstone, Thorin had been suspicious of Bilbo, but he had doubted his judgement, knowing he was overwhelmed with the boundless wealth of Erebor lying at his feet. If all she said was true… If the burglar really had hidden from him his family heirloom… Thorin felt cold dread reaching for his heart. He was rattled to the core, but there was no way he was going to let the woman see it.

He had to get out. He had to oversee the preparations for a siege, and to send a message to Laketown and to the Iron Hills. He had to sit down and stare at that map of Mirkwood until it started to make sense. He had to check the facts.

“Be careful who you speak of… Marian. That hobbit has proven his loyalty and several times saved our lives. I will not stand for idle accusations.”

Hawke had recoiled in surprise at his mention of her name. She was sure she hadn’t told him. She rarely told people her name, because in the end everybody called her Hawke anyway. But the other Thorin had known. The mage frowned at the implications, which also reminded her that her jailer was not her enemy. Thorin had many faults, but he was not cruel.

“Bard and I saved the whole Laketown and got you your mountain back,” she said. “Tell me — is he alive?”

The dwarf measured her with a calculating glance. “The bargeman is weak, but he is alive. He is well tended to,” he carefully said.

“Thank you,” Hawke sighed. “Prepare for an attack from the north-west,” she said more calmly. “Check the ramparts, secure the valley… I don’t know. I just know that an army of orcs and wargs is coming from Mount Gundabad the moment they hear that the dragon is dead. A tragedy is going to happen if you don’t let the past lie and work together with your old allies.”

Thorin nodded at her tersely before he left. Those were very serious possibilities she was talking about. The Arkenstone in the hands of the elves, an army marching to battle…

He had seen her surprise, her recognition of the name. If that map was no forgery and if what she said about Bilbo turned out to be true, then he had some thinking to do and some very intense preparations to begin.

And then, if he discovered that his burglar had truly planned to betray him, then that was probably the last time he ever trusted Gandalf, or hobbits, or anybody else who was not a dwarf. Loyalty, honor… It seemed that in the end they were nothing but words.

 

~~~

Kili was sitting cross-legged on the shore some distance away from the fire. The boat was heavy and slow, and they had been keeping close to the shore in case the dragon came flying straight over the lake. As a result, the journey was taking them longer than it had for Thorin and company. Kili raised his head and looked at the mountain wrapped in evening dusk in front of him. His uncle was there. He turned his head and glanced across the lake — his heart was on the west shore.

With a sigh he leaned forward and continued fleshing the fox pelt that was tacked to the ground in front of him. He didn’t have the right tools — like others, he had lost the majority of his things in Thranduil’s halls — but the technique he used was very simple. He could improvise. The archer barely noticed when Fili joined him, sitting down with his usual evening pipe. Kili finished fleshing and picked up a smooth rock he had previously found on the shore.

“Why don’t you rest?” Fili asked him. “It’s been a long day walking or rowing, and we don’t know what tomorrow will bring.”

Kili shrugged as he rubbed the hide with the stone to get rid of the last vestiges of flesh. “I don’t want these to go to waste.”

The other dwarf chuckled. “We’re on a quest of a lifetime to regain our ancestral halls, but you continue your tanning. Stop, Kili. Look around you, and be the warrior that you are. Put away everything else for a while.”

“Can’t,” Kili shook his head, reaching for the bowl of his usual tanning mixture — the animal’s brains mixed with water and some oil he had nicked from Sigrid’s stock. Dipping his hand in the solution, he spread it liberally over the hide. “I start thinking all sorts of stupid things...” he muttered. “I’d rather keep myself occupied.”

“We’re all worried about them, Kee. But the best we can do at the moment is rest and be as prepared as we can.”

Kili paused in his work. “It’s not about Thorin,” he admitted quietly, so Fili had to bend forward to hear him. “I mean, I worry about them too, but I’d like to think they’ll be alright. Uncle will make sure of that.”

The elder brother frowned. “What’s eating you then?”

“It’s crazy,” Kili muttered, straightening up and using his forearm to brush away the hair from his face.

“What is?”

Kili sighed. He had been thinking about his new silver bead the whole day, and in the end he had figured that he should probably tell Fili about it. If Fili had any ideas that could end his uncertainty, then Kili was willing to risk the heir of Durin dying of laughter.

“This...” Kili bent his head revealing his neck. “Look behind the ear. My hands are dirty.”

“You got a tick or what? I assure you, Kee, you won’t die of... Oh. Mahal, I never thought...” Fili broke into a wide grin and was chuckling softly. “Congratulations, brother! Who’s the lucky girl?”

Kili groaned. “Nobody! I mean...”

“Nobody, he says! Aw, come on, Kili, these are happy news! I just don’t understand how you managed to hide it from me all this time!”

“Will you hush down! There hasn’t been ‘all this time’! There hasn’t been any proposal or anything! I’m not even sure if there is a ‘lucky girl’!”

Fili almost recoiled in astonishment. “How can there be a courting bead in your hair but no lass to put it there?”

“It’s not a courting bead, you idiot! And to think you’re the future king of our people…” Kili grumbled.

“Well, better me than you, who can’t string a decent explanation together,” Fili noted.

The archer sighed, quickly finishing with the mixture and wiping his hands in a rag before slumping forward and resting his forehead on his hands. “Alright,” he mumbled. “Tauriel put it there.”

“Tauriel?”

“Yeah.”

“Ermm... Whoa. But she’s an elf! So what does it mean?”

Kili threw his hands in the air. “I’m asking myself the same question! Either she knew what it means for the dwarves, or she didn’t!”

“And that’s what got you so anxious? Kili, even if she did know, it’s not as if she can simply claim you as some spoils of war. You know these things have to work both ways before they mean anything! No, wait a minute actually,” Fili bent forward to better see in the gathering darkness. “Would you mind telling me _how it ended up in your hair_ without that elf saying anything?”

Kili regretted this conversation already. He wished he could go back in time and simply keep his mouth shut and brave the uncertainty until he had a chance to talk to her. Explaining the whole thing was confusing, humiliating and painful.

He recounted his whole involvement with the elf as curtly as he could, starting from the bargeman’s house. Fili listened, eyes wide with disbelief. In the end he frowned and started stuffing his pipe again.

“So you like her.”

The archer nodded despondently. “I more than like her, Fee. Much more.”

For a while Fili didn’t say anything, lighting his pipe and staring out over the lake. Kili watched him gloomily. He could understand his brother’s need to think it over for a while, but what he couldn’t understand was the wry smirk growing on his brother’s face.

“Fine princes we are, catching our uncle between a rock and a hard place,” Fili finally muttered. “Oh, I can’t wait till he finds out…”

“What, the scandalous fact that his younger nephew has lost his mind and fallen for an elf?”

Still smirking, the blond shook his head. “Not only, brother. His older nephew has also lost his mind and fallen for the wrong girl.” He brushed the hair from his neck and leaned towards Kili. “And she has fallen for him.”

Kili gingerly reached for the golden bead glittering in his brother’s hair. With just a few words the whole situation had taken an unexpectedly absurd but heart-warming turn. He felt a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Master Garb’s eldest? Ronya?” he softly asked.

Fili shook his head, an amused sparkle dancing in his blue eyes. “Aye, Thorin would like that. A family with good name and money, staunch supporters and friends. But no, my fool heart belongs to her cousin, little Feya.”

“Isn’t she barely sixty?” Kili frowned. “Or I’m confusing her with somebody else?”

“I don’t now how you can confuse Feya with somebody else… She’s barely of age, yes. And nevertheless, I have her pledge in my hair, and I’m marrying her the moment she steps her little foot in Erebor. And if Thorin doesn’t like it, then I’m taking her back to the Blue Mountains, and you, dear brother, will have to be the crown prince in my stead… A fine heir you will make, with an elf for a wife,” he added with a chuckle. “Let’s see how Uncle likes that...”

Kili laughed, delighted by the silly thought, and cuffed his brother on the shoulder. “He really doesn’t know?”

“Nope. We wanted to wait until after this quest. Not that it would have changed anything, but… well… Her family are rich merchants. If this quest fails, we are just old nobility with lots of ambition while sometimes even the patches on our clothes have patches… But who’d have thought that you and an elf…” Fili shook his head in disbelief, laughing softly.

Kili sighed. “I don’t think that bead means anything, Fee. As you said, she’s an elf. She cannot know our customs.”

His brother shook his head thoughtfully, looking out over the lake. “No, she cannot know… She’s very different from dwarf girls...”

“Yeah. And that’s it, I guess.”

Fili passed him his pipe, and for a long time the brothers sat on the shore, with silence stretching between them as they watched the light dimming in the west.

Kili was thinking on what Fili had just said. He frowned.

Tauriel was different. She was no dwarven lass. She didn’t know, couldn’t know their customs. So it followed that…

He had never thought about it this way, but Fili was right. He was completely and utterly right, the rules of the game were different, and perhaps there were no rules at all.

“What’s so funny?” Fili quirked his eyebrow when the archer suddenly broke into muffled laughter.

“Mahal keep you! Thank you, Fee!”

“What for?”

Kili turned to his brother, grinning widely.

“She’s no dwarf lass! I don’t have to wait patiently, with my heart locked away and a pleasant smile on my face. I can do as Men do — convince her. Fili, I can fight for her heart. I have to at least try!”

Fili shook his head in disbelief, but there was a smile growing on his face.

“Kee, you don’t go after a woman. You politely pose the question, and if it’s a no, then it’s a no.”

“But don’t you understand? It only makes sense with dwarves! We can’t afford any infighting, or being put out with each other, so courting is made as restrained and calm as possible. But _Tauriel is no dwarf_ , and I honestly don’t care whose toes I’d be stepping on!”

Fili laughed, a hearty, surprised sound that reverberated over the water. “You’re redefining ‘reckless’. What would Mother say?” he chuckled.

“No idea,” Kili grinned, drunk on the possibilities before him. He fished out his runestone, threw it in the air and deftly caught it again. “She only asked us to return safe and sound.”

“That might exclude ‘married to our ancient enemy’! Hey, Kili, I just remembered you back in Rivendell! ‘Elf maids too thin’, he says. ‘High cheekbones, creamy skin; not enough facial hair’… Want to eat your words, brother?”

Kili chuckled and punched Fili. The blond cuffed him on the head, and soon the two brothers were in a full-fledged fight on the shore of the Long Lake, growling, laughing and swearing at each other.

 

Tilda stared at them from the fireplace, and then turned to Bofur, who was just finishing his fox stew.

“Are they angry with each other?”

The toymaker glanced out in the darkness. “These two? Nah,” he waved his hand. “Normal princely behaviour. You get used to that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters may be slower, but they tend to get longer. I'm definitely not abandoning this baby :)
> 
> Kindly checked and pre-criticized by iscatterthemintimeandspace.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upping the stakes for Tauriel...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry for the long delay, and I know I said longer chapters, but, well, life is life and I figured I'd better publish what I have rather than wait even longer... I hope you like how Thranduil's mind works :)
> 
> Also, Arrangements now have a new half-finished baby part "A Thousand Years".
> 
> Bilbo and Hawke not hating each other too much is compliments of iscatterthemintimeandspace. She's a great advocate of Bilbo.

 

* * *

 

Tauriel dragged herself into her room, bolted the door shut and then collapsed on the bed. She wanted to scream, and, biting into her pillow, she did just that. That didn’t make her feel any better.

Somebody rapped on the door, and the elf hugged her pillow to her chest and scrunched her eyes shut. Why wouldn’t they just leave her alone for a moment?!

“Tauriel!” came a man’s voice from behind the door. “Open, please, I need to speak with you!”

“Go away, Legolas, I’m tired!” she pleaded.

“But there is no other time to talk to you, I can barely find you in all this chaos! Please!”

The redhead groaned as she sat up in bed. She had no idea what Thranduil was doing these days but, despite him being the high commander of the Mirkwood army, he had made it her job to see to all the preparations. And it appeared that her King’s idea of a punishment for Legolas had been to temporarily suspend him from his duties as well.

Tauriel was struggling, overwhelmed with reports and questions, and trying to forge a coherent team from the deputy leaders of all three arms of the elven forces: the Warriors, the Scouts and the Guards. She had no idea why Thranduil was doing this to her, except maybe to humiliate her when she’d inevitably fail, but she couldn’t really believe that. Thranduil would not risk his march on Erebor for the questionable pleasure of destroying one woodland elf’s self-esteem.

“What do you want?” she asked as she threw open the door.

Legolas sighed and brushed past her into the room. “To talk with you, about what’s going on.” He sat down in a chair near her washing table and glanced at her somewhat guiltily.

“ _Please_ try to be quick,” Tauriel sighed in defeat, bolting the door again and flopping down on her bed. “What is your father doing? What does he want from Erebor?”

Legolas shook his head. “I can’t tell you that yet, Tauriel, I’m sorry. But I know there’s a reason for this march regardless of whether the dwarves have retaken the mountain or not.”

“Then why am _I_ doing this?” Tauriel questioned tiredly. “Is it because of Laketown? Was I too insolent when I spoke to him afterwards? Is this some-“

“Look,” Legolas interrupted her. “I know he’s pushing you to your limits. He forbade me to intervene in the preparations, but believe me, there is a reason for this as well.”

“What reason could that be? Testing the bounds of my unpaid, unquestioning loyalty?”

“No, Tauriel, it’s a bigger test.” Legolas sighed and fidgeted in the chair. “Remember you mentioned a conversation with my father? About how he’d never allow us to... Well, when we returned, he talked to me about it.”

Tauriel raised herself up from the bed, leaning back on her elbows and staring at her friend in confusion. Why, in the middle of all this insanity, was she reminded of that particular conversation?

“What of it, _mellon_? I thought we left it behind us.”

Legolas sighed again, obviously embarrassed by the topic.

“You’ve impressed him,” he said. “He will never admit it, but he wants to test the limits of your capabilities. If you manage to successfully organize everything in such short time and show your very best during the campaign, then after our return he’s planning on making you his junior deputy. You’d be third in command of the whole Mirkwood army. In such case, he said, he would be willing to consider our union.”

Tauriel sat up fully, blinking in shock. Third in command? At her young age? With the prince’s hand in marriage on top of that?

“Well, what did you say?” she asked stupidly.

The prince shrugged. “I said I’d be honoured, what else could I say?”

“Legolas — we talked about this!”

“Yes, but he took me completely by surprise!” Legolas exclaimed, throwing up his hands and rising from the chair. He walked over to the window and stared outside, hands clasped on the ornately carved windowsill.

“I didn’t know what to say. You told me we’re not suited to each other, that you would not marry me,” he said with his back to her. “But, Tauriel, I am two thousand and four, and I have never been in love. You’re the closest friend I’ve ever had, and I really like you. I think we would make a good couple, and maybe love would come later. Meanwhile, you get a position that allows you to finally deal with those spiders that you hate so much, you get some well-deserved authority and respect. I thought I’d at least speak with you before rejecting my father’s proposal.”

“Oh, Legolas,” Tauriel sighed, leaning forward and rubbing her eyes tiredly. “This is so wrong I don’t even know where to begin. Such matters should be between us. If we loved each other, it would not be for your father to forbid or to allow anything, to threaten or to bribe. You should not have even brought this to me. It is just... a game that he plays, and you are its willing participant.”

Legolas glanced at her over his shoulder. “I really thought you should consider — it’s a good offer. I’m not playing any games with you, Tauriel.”

“No, but your father is,” Tauriel smiled bitterly. Legolas turned and sat down on the bed beside her.

The redhead tried to gather her tired thoughts. She had always felt like the object of Thranduil’s games of cat and mouse, where he sometimes caressed her with heavenly soft white paws, and sometimes made her feel his claws, to remind her who she was dealing with, to remind her to never relax in his presence. It was wonderful and painful at the same time, and she admired and loved her King as much as she resented him.

She wasn’t sure what to do. She would have done her best even if she hadn’t known the potential award for her efforts. She wasn’t trying to prove anything. And that was another thing. Legolas had said ‘well-deserved authority and respect’, but if it was well-deserved, then shouldn’t it be offered regardless of whether the heir of the Woodland Realm wanted to marry her?

Tauriel stared at her hands. She couldn’t confront Thranduil about this. She was just the Captain of the Guard, whom Thranduil could exile on a whim. She couldn’t turn the game on him either. The one time she had tried to twist his words to her advantage was exactly what had landed her in this situation. Impressed him, hah. Tauriel frowned, trying to understand her King.

“Legolas?” she asked after a while. “Don’t you think he’s cheating you out of something?”

The prince looked at her, a silent question in his eyes.

“The chance to find love and true happiness,” Tauriel explained. “So what if it’s taken you two thousand years. Maybe it will take you another thousand, but when you find it, I think it will be worth it. At least, it will be real, not some gamble for grandchildren or whatever it is that your father hopes to achieve with this. And when I get appointed the Elvenking’s deputy, I would like that too to be real, not an exhausting race to prove something that I’m not. If it is taking so much from me, to prepare for this march, then I’m not ready for such responsibility. One day, I will be, but not just yet. And that is the simple truth of things. I think you should remind yourself about that more often.”

Legolas smiled at her sadly. “When you speak, everything seems so simple.”

“Because it is. When you hold on to what’s right and true, then it really is simple.”

For a few moments the two sat in silence, Tauriel leaning her head on Legolas’ shoulder and the prince enduring it gracefully. She was remembering the speech she had given Kili back at the bargeman’s house, how life was a river and how she intended to make hers count. She wondered what she would do if her King’s games started to seriously interfere with what she considered her task in life.

“Tauriel?”

“Hm?”

“We still friends after this?”

The redhead chuckled. “March as a Captain with your scouts tomorrow, and we’re good. And get out of my room! We leave at dawn, and I really need to sleep!”

Legolas laughed, getting up and shaking his head. “I’ll think of something, my commander,” he promised. “If hard work is what keeps me on your good side...”

Tauriel threw a pillow at him. “A girl needs to sleep!”

“Alright, my dear. See you in the morning!”

Finally, the door closed behind the prince, and Tauriel could snuggle into her sheets. She refused to think any more about Thranduil’s convoluted and presumptuous plans. It seemed to her that if his initial purpose in coming to Mirkwood had been to revert to a more simple way of life, then he had failed spectacularly.

And Legolas should step out of his father’s shadow and use that pretty head of his more often. He was a great person, just… Tauriel yawned. He got side-tracked by his father quite a lot. He should get away from the Realm for a year or so. Would do him good, to see the world, to meet other people…

Thinking about one specific piece of the world, Tauriel hugged a pillow and drifted off to sleep.

 

***

 

Hours had passed since Thorin had left the dungeon. Hawke had slept some more, until she couldn’t bear lying down any more. She had restlessly paced her cell, trying to work the stiffness out of her limbs, picked at her itching forearm, wondering if the bandages should be changed. She had wondered about Bard, hoping his condition was improving. She had mused on what Thorin was doing.

Playing with her ball of golden light, she had pondered what to do if she miraculously got out of her cell — should she find Thorin to convince him further, or should she hide somewhere in the mountain and only show up for the battle? She would have to locate her staff first.

Also, what did it mean that Thorin had known her name? Were the two Thorins somehow connected through time and space? Did it mean that she too could somehow reach back to her other self in Kirkwall and stop Anders herself?

And if three people from three different worlds, believing in three different gods had found themselves in the same place — a folk pub no less! — did it mean there was no god at all?

How could that be?

When her guard Dwalin brought her some dry bread, she perched cross-legged on her cot and nibbled on it, hoping that the dwarves had something better to offer Bard. He needed some broth, maybe light gruel. A basic embrium seasoning with a dash of elfroot would do him good. Actually, damn it all to the Fade, what he needed was one simple health potion!

Hawke jumped up from the cot, angry at her helplessness, her memories and her own decisions. She had to make Bard’s sacrifice count. She had to make this whole crazy endeavour succeed, and then she could go and die a valiant death fighting darkspawn in the Deep Roads, or whatever worked in this world.

Lying face down on the cold stone floor, Hawke crossed her ankles and placed her hands below her shoulders. Thinking of her bladed staff and whether orc armour was any stronger than that of the templars, Hawke started doing push-ups.

She wondered if Tharkûn was any good in close combat. Merrill and Anders had both used an arcane shield, while Hawke herself preferred a more physical solution. She thought about the impending battle. Remembering her mistakes with Smaug, Hawke considered her lack of a close-knit maelstrom brigade. She could cast spells only if there was somebody to protect her front and watch her back. A mage couldn’t very well rain down destruction on her enemies if there was nobody to keep them at bay. Hawke wondered if anybody would be willing to look out for her. Bard probably wouldn’t. Actually, it was possible that Thorin wouldn’t allow her to fight at all.

Now that would be stupid.

In the middle of push-up fifty-four, Hawke’s anxious and chaotic musings were interrupted by a loud commotion on the stairs. The mage jumped up from the floor and clutched at the bars of her cell, eager to know what was going on.

“Stop whining!” came Dwalin’s gruff voice from around the corridor bend. “You think I like what’s going on? I tell you, don’t make it harder on yourself, laddie. Just sit here and wait till Thorin calms down and listens to you!”

“Calms down!? He can no longer be reasoned with, Dwalin! Have you seen his eyes? The way he clenches his jaw and how he looks at that accursed gold?”

“He is the King under the Mountain. He can look however he wants, he’s still your leader.”

“Becoming a king doesn’t make him always right! This time he’s not, and somebody needs to convince him! Persuade even! You heard what he said about the elves! He won’t negotiate!”

 Still panting slightly from her exertions, the mage watched as the dwarven warrior led a... a _hobbit_ down the corridor by the scruff of his neck, his hands crossed stubbornly over his chest. Hawke had never seen anybody quite so small. He was no taller than an elf child, but there was nothing frail or willowy about the little man. He was just... small. Curly hair, old blue dressing gown frayed at the collar, brown breeches, hairy feet. Hawke frowned. This little man had saved Thorin’s life?

She winced as Dwalin shoved him none too gently into the adjoining cell and locked the door.

“Dwalin!” the hobbit cried. “ _Speak_ with him! Make him see that there’s no way he can keep his gold and win against the elves!”

“That’s for him to decide now,” the dwarf grumbled. Nodding at Hawke, he turned and left without any further comment.

Hawke followed him with a narrowed gaze. So Thorin was not letting her out, even if he now had his stone back. The mage huffed and sat down on her cot, casting an annoyed look at the hobbit through the bars separating their cells. She didn’t blame him, but she was growing increasingly frustrated by being locked up.

The little man had sat down by the wall, knees pulled up to his chest and curly head bent low. There was no cot, not even a mattress or a pile of straw in his cell. Apparently the dwarves had put their first prisoner in the better cell, and the second prisoner got only stone floor for comfort. Despite her annoyance, Hawke felt sorry for the creature.

“Hey,” she tried. “Don’t worry about the dwarves. You’ll get out.”

The hobbit raised his head. Hawke was somewhat impressed to see that he wasn’t crying.

“You!” he hissed. “You told him I’m going to betray him!”

The mage shrugged and offered the hobbit a half-hearted smile. “Sorry for that. Might have slipped as we argued.”

“I only had that gem in my pocket!” Bilbo exclaimed indignantly. “My only offence is that I didn’t hand it over to Thorin soon enough! I wasn’t planning to betray anyone! How could I? He only just told me about the elf army coming to Erebor!”

“Well, you should have given it to Thorin, when you knew he was looking for it,” Hawke said. “For some reason you refused, and if things had continued as they were, you would have given the Arkenstone to his enemies. To ‘persuade him’, as you say. To force him into negotiations.”

“Yes, and it would have saved all our lives,” the hobbit snarled, narrowing his eyes on her. It was a strange grimace on his open, honest face.

Hawke smiled at him sadly. “Not all is lost yet. Have faith in him, Master Bilbo. By the way, my name is Hawke,” she offered.

“Hawke,” the hobbit repeated, pinning her with his peculiar brown-blue-grey gaze. “Well, Miss Hawke, you have no idea what you’ve done with that slip of tongue. You don’t know Thorin, but I do,” he said, getting up and starting to pace his cell. “He’s not himself at the moment! I know what all this treasure did to his grandfather. I know of the gold sickness running in his family, I have seen it in his eyes. And now he’s raving about elves and men coming to take away his gold, and he’s preparing for a siege! That damned Arkenstone was the sign he’d been looking for to confirm that he’s right! But he can’t be right, not when the Elvenking’s army is marching on Erebor and there’s just a handful of dwarves here. Thorin has succumbed to that curse, and now he’ll die for it, we all will die!”

Hawke turned her head, following the hobbit’s anxious pacing.

“I admit he’s being difficult, but you don’t understand what that treasure means to him,” she said.

“Oh, and you do?!” Bilbo yelled at her and immediately composed himself, looking embarrassed by his sudden outburst. “Miss Hawke, you showed up two days ago, standing over a dead dragon and a half-dead bargeman, while I have been travelling with Thorin for _months_. I heard what Lord Elrond and Gandalf said about the gold sickness, that Thorin was bound to fall for it, just like his grandfather did before him. I didn’t want to believe it then, but when even Balin, who has known him his _whole life_ , says that Thorin’s changed, and not for the best, then, yes, I blame that pile of gold!”

Hawke sighed and closed her eyes, resting her head against the wall.

“I don’t understand one thing,” she muttered. “You obviously care for Thorin — I know you risked your life to save his. He _trusted_ you. So how come you don’t _get_ it that...” Hawke trailed off, looking for words. She knew Thorin was wrong, and stubborn, and too focused on the past for his own good, but still... “It is the gold of his people, earned through long years of hard work and clever trade. And for one hundred and seventy years, his people had to do without it, had to live in exile. Of course, he’s overwhelmed and being an ass, but that’s no excuse for going behind his back and taking decisions away from him. Nobody deserves that, trust me.”

“I just want us all to live!” Bilbo said, sounding exasperated. “I don’t even know why I hid the Arkenstone from him. Thorin was acting strangely, and I thought I’d hang on to it for a while longer, to see how things went. Maybe I was wrong to assume it was the gold sickness affecting him. Maybe the dragon got in my head.”

Hawke looked at the hobbit attentively. “Smaug? What did he say?”

“Oh, something about Thorin just using me to steal for him. That my life was worth nothing to him. Smaug even said he was tempted to let me steal the Arkenstone, just to see how it corrupts Thorin, destroys him. Something like that. I am so afraid for him...”

The mage considered him for a moment. “He tried to get in my head too,” she said. “Pointed out some nasty stuff, but didn’t get it quite right.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Said there was darkness in me, that I should reach for greatness and ‘embrace the night that was coming’, or some shit like that,” Hawke grimaced. “Well, be it as it may, I’m not taking orders from some scaly lizard. I came here to help Thorin, and that’s what I intend to do.”

“Glad to hear it, my lady,” came a sudden cheerful voice from the corridor, and both prisoners jolted upright.

“KILI?” Bilbo gasped and ran the few steps to the bars. “Oh, I’m so glad to see you. How did you get here? Did Fili come with you?”

The dark-haired archer grinned and clasped Bilbo’s hand through the bars. “So many questions, Mister Boggins. Yes, we are all here. Fili’s upstairs trying to talk some sense in Thorin.” He nodded at the mage. “And you must be Hawke. _Finally_ , I have the pleasure of meeting you, my lady. Kili, at your service!”

Hawke bit her lip to stifle a grin. The young dwarf was quite charming when he was not bleeding to death. “Hawke, at yours,” she responded with a smile.

“Well, Bilbo, I’m sorry but I can’t linger here,” he said, jingling a keyring. “I have to let out Hawke and then go back to the throne room to assist my brother with some shouting. Thorin’s still terribly upset about you, but Dwalin gave me the keys — I’m sure your gentlehobbit posterior would appreciate sitting on a cot instead of the floor. We’ll get you out in no time, don’t worry.”

Bilbo chuckled. “If wait I must, then so be it. Just know that I’m really happy to see you here, Kili. Oin really has done wonders — you’re not even limping!”

Kili flashed him a brilliant smile, and then let out Hawke and switched the hobbit to the other cell. He assured Bilbo that, with the combined efforts of his brother and him, this whole misunderstanding should be over in a day’s time at most. His conviction and cheerfulness seemed to be contagious, and Hawke found herself smiling despite the circumstances. Somehow, with the archer’s arrival, everything seemed possible.

Taking a deep breath, Hawke followed him up the stairs.

***

Thorin stared at the woman, his arms crossed and face unreadable, as Fili returned to her the two necklaces that Dwalin and Gloin had taken from her before locking her up. It turned out that she had covered their escape from the Elvenking’s Halls and led the elf that saved Kili’s life to Laketown. Of course, that was just the icing on the fact that she was a wizard, who had done what Thorin could not, and killed Smaug the Golden.

He was grateful, yes. But he was also annoyed about the manner in which she’d shown up, and resentful of the fact that he hadn’t known about her. That was evidently a common trait among wizards — to appear and disappear as they pleased. To have a wizard where and when you need one was a matter of sheer luck, Thorin thought grimly, watching the woman being properly introduced to the rest of the Company. He hated to rely on luck.

Then there remained the mystery of what had happened to Bard. The bargeman was still sleeping most of the time, but now his eldest daughter was here to take care of him. The small company had brought some herbs and food with them, so Thorin was fairly sure the man would get well soon enough.  Regardless of that, Hawke was not getting her staff back, at least not until Thorin had spoken with the bargeman.

The fact that she might truly be from a different timeline Thorin refused to ponder at all, even though the Arkenstone had been where she said it would be — in Bilbo’s pocket, and his handwriting in her journal seemed authentic. If they had any blank parchment and more time, he would ask Ori to decipher the rest of the journal, based on those few translated words. For the moment, however, the most he could do was accept his nephews’ assurances that she could be let out of her cell and then wait for his raven scouts to return. And to prepare for war.

“Thorin.”

He glanced down from where he was standing on the raised dais before the throne. Like this, the wizard woman’s striking blue eyes were almost level with his. He nodded for her to speak.

“I would like to tell you everything I know, if you’d listen,” she said, nervously biting her lip. Thorin raised an eyebrow.

“So now you are willing to spill your secrets?” he asked. “What changed your mind? Don’t tell me it was the cell.”

The woman put her hands on hips and narrowed her eyes at him. “Well, I would have told you straight away – if you’d asked!”

“I did ask you,” Thorin shrugged.

“Who I serve? I serve myself. Is that a good enough answer for you?”

“Perhaps. And why do you want to help me?”

Hawke sighed and glanced around. “Can we sit down and talk somewhere more private?”

“Can you lift boulders to build a wall?” Thorin retorted.

“What?” Hawke blinked in surprise. “No... No I can’t. I’m not a force mage, I don’t move things around. Sorry.”

“Then can you operate a block and tackle?”

“Uhh... Maybe?”

“Then follow me, if you want to help.” Thorin stepped down from the dais and moved towards the exit. Everyone else had left the throne room already, and for a moment he wondered who had given the order to get back to work. Probably Dwalin. Good. “If you’re right about the Elvenking’s army approaching from the west and an orc force coming from Mount Gundabad, then we need to finish repairing the front gate,” he said.

We also need to put out a scout on the ledge behind the secret door, and to free the corridor to the western guardroom, Thorin thought, listening to Hawke’s steady footsteps following him. We need to put those bodies to rest and install another guard there. And then send out somebody to scout the northern hillside.

But first, they needed to repair the gate, and then he’d discuss his plans with his nephews, Balin and Dwalin. Let the wizard haul stones for the moment. After what the hobbit had done, there was no way he was sharing his strategies with an outsider.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold, the longest chapter yet :)  
> Warning for some crude language towards the end, but that's Dwalin on the subject of elves, what do you expect?

 

 

The supper was an awkward affair, to say the least. The dwarves sat hunched on their bedrolls, in small groups of two or three, munching their barley porridge with smoked meat gravy. The food brought by the Laketowners was delicious, but Thorin’s gloomy mood set the tone, and the dwarves ate in silence.

It had been a long day. Hawke had been hauling building blocks and buckets of crushed stone and mortar, placing them correctly on the wall and avoiding dropping them on somebody’s foot. Others had been bringing water from the River Running, chipping the boulders to the right form, or digging sand and gravel on the slopes of the mountain.

Sleeves rolled up, Thorin himself had seemed to be everywhere at once, his commanding, deep voice rising up in the crisp autumn air, piercing gaze assessing every stone and following every step. More than once, he had shouted at Hawke when she was about to release the wrong hook, grabbed a bucket from Ori’s weakening grip or loudly argued about the consistence of the mortar with Kili, who had been shouting back from the top of the wall.

Thickness Hawke understood. Lime content, shear and stress resistance she didn’t, so she just clenched her jaw, bent her head and ploughed on.

There had been laughing and even singing as the new wall had risen up steadily before the gate, and by the end of the day the mage had learned a good deal about mortar and the simple but genius dwarven construction mechanisms. Somebody — Bofur? — had even clapped her on her back for the good job.

It had been a good day, filled with vibrant comradeship and useful work, but now, back inside the mountain, the dwarves had apparently remembered who the wall was meant for. Faced with Thorin’s unyielding resolve to stand his ground, as well as the continued absence of their hobbit, the mood had deteriorated into numb tiredness, which affected Hawke just as much as the others. She was strong for a woman, but she was no dwarf. Right now she could barely lift her spoon, much less argue with Thorin about the pitfalls of his pride.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor with a bowl of porridge on her lap, Hawke glanced up at the dingy room they were to sleep in. It should be cleaned, the floor tiles and the geometric cornices should be repaired. The doorframe and the door had to be replaced altogether, and this was just one room of probably thousands. There was so much work to do if Thorin wanted to get his kingdom in order. Hawke wondered if he ever will.

Feeling her gaze on him, Thorin looked up and glared right back at her. Sighing, Hawke turned back to her supper. After a few bites, she saw Thorin straighten up and cast a look over his Company, noting that Bard’s daughters were sitting huddled with his nephews.

“Where’s your brother?” Thorin quietly asked them. Hawke pricked up her ears from across the room.

Startled from her own thoughts, Sigrid pursed her lips and tightened the shawl around her shoulders.

“With Father, my lord,” she said. “Bain brought him supper and will remain with him for the first part of the night. Then I will go sit with him.”

Thorin hummed. “How is he?”

“Better… Master Oin thinks he will be able to sit up tomorrow and, if he can lean on a crutch, then maybe he can start moving around in a couple of days. Otherwise there seems to be nothing wrong, he’s just weak.” Sigrid frowned and cast a dark glance at Hawke. “The arm will take a few months to heal though.”

Thorin followed the girl’s gaze and was again met by Hawke’s unflinching blue stare. He cleared his throat.

“We still haven’t heard the whole story, Mistress Hawke,” he said, raising his voice so the whole room would hear. “How did you kill the dragon?”

The dwarves glanced up from their bowls or mending, or braiding, or whatever they had been doing. Kili lowered a half-made knotted belt in his lap, and Fili paused in combing little Tilda’s hair. Curious, proud, supportive — all eyes turned towards Hawke. The mage swallowed thickly.

“We… We both did, actually,” she said slowly putting away her finished bowl and spoon so as to avoid having to look anybody in the eye. “I trapped the dragon with a prison spell and weakened him with some lightning storm and a… well, a blood poisoning curse. Then Bard shot him in the heart. All together, it proved enough to do the lizard in.”

“Then why is Da ill?” asked Tilda, eyebrows knit in confusion.

Hawke felt a lump in her throat. She looked at the dwarves staring back at her with wonder and a growing respect. They thought her a hero. She had worked side by side with them today, and she knew they were good people. Honourable. What would they think of her if they knew the truth? The mage glanced at Thorin, but his eyes were shuttered, his face expressing nothing but mild curiosity.

“I…” she started and then stopped again, her brow furrowed. How could she explain her magic to them?

“Well?” Thorin queried, cocking his head to the side.

“I’m a… blood mage,” Hawke sighed, glancing down into her lap and hugging her left forearm to her stomach. “My strongest spells are powered by blood. I cut myself to cast the corruption spell, but the prison glyph was slipping, and I needed more power to bind the dragon. I… cast a demand for sacrifice and took that blood from Bard. His arm and leg I had nothing to do with, it was an accident. I’m… I’m very sorry.”

The room froze in shocked silence, and then it erupted in a cacophony of angry shouts and a flurry of action as the dwarves jumped up from their seats and started gesticulating wildly.

“ _What_ did she do?” queried the half-deaf Oin.

“To _think_ of sacrificing somebody who’s helped you!” cried the red-headed warrior, Oin’s brother.

“Blood magic! That is unnatural,” protested Bofur, “that is wrong, plain wrong! How… How can anybody even _consider_ taking somebody’s blood to power a spell?”

“A demand for sacrifice? How can you _demand_ a sacrifice?” Ori didn’t understand. “Shouldn’t it, by its very definition, be something you offer willingly?”

“How can we feel safe now?” whined Dori over the din. “How can we trust her when she wields such dark magic and has no qualms of conscience?”

Bofur’s cousin with the axe in his head growled something in Khuzdul, gesturing at the angry dwarves and then at Hawke and the Laketown girls.

“It is unthinkable!” Bombur was muttering. “To use another’s life to further your own aims!”

“It is dishonourable, unacceptable!” concluded Dwalin indignantly before turning to his older brother, who was just watching silently, a frown on his face. “Balin, don’t you have anything to say to this?!”

Sigrid had leaned into Fili’s side, clasping her little sister’s hand tightly in hers, while the warrior had hugged the girl to his chest, ready to whisk her away if Hawke as much as blinked suspiciously. Kili was looking around the room in confusion, trying to make sense of it all. Thorin was standing up and unsuccessfully shouting for everyone to calm down, and only Tilda and a shifty looking dwarf continued staring at Hawke without any real fear.

Bowing her head and scrunching her eyes shut, Hawke wished she could disappear into thin air. She had known it would be bad if the dwarves ever found out the bloody details, but after a day in their midst, the blow fell harder than she had expected. Would Thorin throw her out now? Was this the end of her quest?

Suddenly, one voice boomed over the room, effectively shutting everyone up. Hawke jerked up her head to find that it belonged to the dwarf with the crazy triangular hair who had stared at her before.

“You are in EREBOR!” the dwarf shouted. “You are here because she,” he pointed at Hawke, “killed the dragon! Did we have Gandalf with us? No! Did we have ANY other plan? NO! All our attempts, our honourable attempts, had FAILED! Did we have another chance? NO! That monster was stomping off to lay waste on Laketown, and SHE STOPPED HIM! Bard is alive, Laketown is safe, and we have our gold and riches, so calm the fuck down and let her be!”

After a brief pause of stunned silence, it was Dwalin who spoke up. “Of course you’d be defending the murderer!” he sneered. “Faithless scum! You wouldn’t know right from wrong if it was labelled in large red runes the size of a mountain!”

“Dwalin, enough!” their leader interrupted him with a sharp cut of his hand.

Looking from Hawke to Sigrid, Thorin took in the wizard’s calm despondency and the Laketown girl’s fear and anger. That cursed woman had put him in a truly unenviable position: either he was forced to turn away a powerful fighter, or he would have to condone her methods, and that Thorin simply could not do. Considering that she had retaken the Lonely Mountain for them and was full of strange secrets he had yet to discover, Thorin didn’t want to throw her out either. On the other hand, even if that spell had been just a mistake, he couldn’t quite ignore the fact that its victim was the descendant of Girion and his potential future neighbour.

The dwarf clenched his jaw, glaring at Hawke from under his brows. As much as he hated to admit it, the thief had a point, their own attempts to kill the dragon had failed. And if she were truly dangerous to them, she could have attacked them at any moment since being let out of the dungeon. Either she really was helpless without that staff, or she really was their ally. Or she was a spy, sent by Thranduil to gain his thrust.

Thorin felt a pounding headache starting behind his eyes.

“Everyone, be quiet,” he ordered as calmly as he could. “Aye, you are right. What she did was unacceptable, dishonourable and wrong. However, you all know there was no other option. And if all these years in exile have taught me something it is that _sometimes_ it’s better to resort to dishonesty than watch your loved ones suffer and die.” He locked his eyes with Nori.

“We have all done things we’re not proud of,” he continued. “Mistakes we would never repeat. Now I ask you, Hawke,” he turned to the mage still sitting slumped on the floor, “Why did you do it? Was there really no other way?”

The mage looked up at the dwarf lord. She passed unseeing eyes over the rest of the room, stopping on Sigrid’s, and then slowly shook her head.

“No. There wasn’t. I did what I did, fully understanding the consequences and the cost of my failure. I could not allow Smaug to escape, even if it meant sacrificing a good man that had fought by my side.”

Thorin sighed. “I commend your tenacity, Hawke. But you understand our misgivings about your victory, don’t you?”

“There was no victory for me there.”

The dwarf glanced attentively at the subdued woman, the defeated slope of her shoulders. He could not condone her actions, but he thought he could understand how she felt. After all, those were almost the same words Balin had said to him after the Battle of Azanulbizar. Thousands had died in that bloodbath, and even though their deaths had been honourable, the burning of the dead — ordered by his father at Thorin’s insistence — had been far from it. Thorin sighed again. The Company was waiting on his decision and this was not the time to get lost in old memories.

“Consider yourself on probation,” he growled as Hawke’s head shot up, searching his eyes. “You’re not getting your staff back, and you’re spending the night under a lock. Tomorrow you will continue helping with the works. If we see _any_ magic from you, I will personally find the deepest dungeon there is and put you there permanently, until Gandalf can deal with you. Is that understood?”

Hawke slowly nodded, biting her lip and not taking her eyes off him until Dwalin growled at her and kicked her foot. Without a word, she stood up and tiredly followed the warrior out of the room.

Thorin abruptly turned towards the Laketown girls.

“Your father’s sacrifice will not be forgotten,” he said. “His sure aim and courage will be remembered through the ages, and your family will never want for anything, as long as the line of Durin sits on the throne of Erebor. Should your father ever decide to step up as the Lord of Dale, Thorin Oakenshield will be honoured to back his claim.”

Sigrid stared at him, mouth gaping, until Fili elbowed her in the ribs. Tilda laughed and clapped her hands.

“Let’s go tell Da and Bain!” she squealed, wriggling out of Fili’s lap and tugging at her big sister’s hand.

The elder girl stood up slowly, looking between Thorin and Tilda. She was obviously stunned. Considering the life she’d had, Thorin didn’t doubt that a king’s gratitude and the possibility of reclaiming their ancestral home seemed something from a dream to her. Well, as recent as a few days ago the retaking of Erebor had seemed an impossible dream too.

Once the girls had left the room, a low murmur erupted once more, as the dwarves split up and sat down, talking among themselves and starting to get ready for sleep. For the most part they were tentatively nodding and shrugging, seemingly appreciating how Thorin had dealt with Hawke.

Nori sighed, Kili scratched his head, and Fili chuckled.

“I admire your way with words, Uncle,” he said, shaking out breadcrumbs from his blanket. “You never overpromise, do you?”

“What are you talking about?” Thorin grumbled, lying down and putting his sword next to him on the floor.

“Oh, you don’t remember? Brother, how did he put it to the Master of Laketown?”

Kili laughed. “Something about relighting the great forges of the dwarves and sending wealth and riches flowing once more. Lots of uplifting speeches and promises, painting the future in all shades of rosy.”

“Oh shut up you two,” Thorin sighed.

“Hm. Uncle, do you think they realized that at no point did you promise them any gold directly?” Fili asked innocently. “Just to restore the trade routes of the region?”

“We’d need Dale to do that,” Kili pointed out.

“Maybe Bard will find the ambition. With our support…”

“Oh, by the way, Thorin did light up the forges,” Ori peeped up. “Compliments of Smaug the Golden. You should have seen the look on the dragon’s face when Master Thorin called him a slug.”

Kili raised himself up from his bed. “No way! He called him _what_?”

Thorin sat up, an impatient scowl on his face.

“That’s it!” he barked. “Fili, you’re on first watch, Kili second, Ori third! And while you’re at it, Fili, get the keys from Dwalin and bring the burglar up here; I’ll speak with him tomorrow. Now shut up. We have another long day ahead of us.”

Ignoring the suppressed laughter that erupted from the two brothers and the dismayed sigh from Ori, Thorin wrapped himself in his blanket and turned over facing the wall. His head was splitting, and he couldn’t get the smoke of the burned bodies out of his mind. His brother had died. His grandfather had died. Thousands of brave and loyal warriors had laid down their heads on that fateful day. Thorin remembered the carnage as if it was yesterday.

It had not been possible to return the dead to the stone. The other houses were going back to their homelands, they would not fight the war anymore. His father was the king now. The Durin’s Folk had to return to the Blue Mountains, if they wanted to live another day. There had been no other way.

There had been no victory.

After a short while, Thorin heard the shuffling steps of the hobbit, accompanied by the thud of Fili’s boots. The two were whispering, then there was some more shuffling as Fili helped Bilbo into his bedroll. In the darkness of the dwarf mountain, the hobbit was probably blind as a mole. After that, the steps retreated, Fili taking up his post in the torch-lit corridor.

Despite the restored silence, it was a long time before Thorin could fall asleep.

 

***

To Kili, the silence was deafening. He wished he could keep the door open as he was sitting guard in the middle of the night, then he would at least hear his companion’s snores. But it had been a long day, and he didn’t want want to disturb them with torchlight and creaking doors.

To pass the time, he was making a _jezeraz_ , a knotted belt native to the dwarves of the Blue Mountains. Kili didn’t even remember where he had picked up the technique. It had always sort of just been there, like weeding and mowing, and other activities previously unknown to the dwarves of Erebor. He was thinking about home, about the aspen tree in front of his window that would be shivering with the slightest breeze. The nights had never been so quiet.

He smiled as he remembered snatches of his dream. He had always felt at peace when his uncle and brother were home, the rare days when his whole family was under the same roof. With a soft chuckle, he added Feya to the picture. He didn’t know her that well, but they said she was a kind and lovable girl. He imagined her sitting on the porch with his mother, mending socks or shelling beans. Knowing Fili, there would be also a pair of kids running around in no time.

Kili touched the silver bead in his hair, swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat. To think that he, too, could belong to someone like that…

He was jarred from his thoughts by a quiet rustle down the corridor, and as he snapped his head up from his handwork, he saw it was the old raven, Roäc. The bird landed awkwardly on the stone floor.

“I have a message for Thorin Oakenshield,” he croaked, turning his half-blind gaze towards Kili. “I would deliver it immediately.”

Wondering what crack in the mountainside was big enough to let the blind bird find them in the middle of the night, Kili sighed and got up. “Wait a minute.”

Thorin woke easily, at the first light touch on his shoulder. Kili suspected he hadn’t slept much at all. “The raven has news for you,” he whispered. “He’s out in the corridor.”

Without a word, the older dwarf got up, grabbed his sword and followed his nephew. The raven repeated the message that someone from his kin had relayed to him, but it was some garbled mess of references and notions that only a bird would understand. Kili frowned. Thorin glared at the ancient messanger.

“Orcs three days from the northernmost thicket of Mirkwood,” he repeated sceptically. “How far is that thicket from here, then?”

“Half a day as a raven flies, King.”

“And how fast could an orc army cross that distance?”

The raven turned his other eye on Thorin. Kili had a feeling that it somehow equalled to a shrug.

“Clara didn’t know. People don’t travel those lands. My kin have never seen how long it would take to cross them.”

Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Thank you, Roäc, for your warning. We will prepare ourselves.”

Kili watched after the raven as he flapped his wings and disappeared down the corridor. That had been one useless message if he’d ever heard one.

“So?” he drawled. “We go see for ourselves?”

Thorin sighed as he stood up straighter and put his hands on his hips, glancing between the dark corridor and his nephew. “So it seems,” he grumbled. “You up for it, Kili?”

“Me? Sure, Uncle. But… are _you_ sure about this? I let you down in Laketown...”

Thorin was already walking down the corridor, waving for Kili to follow him. “I’d send you and Dwalin. You are the tallest, so you could use the horses Hawke and Bard arrived on. You are the best tracker among the Company, and Dwalin is a seasoned warrior. Where you can find tracks, he will know what to make of them in terms of tactics.”

Kili nodded, striding after his uncle. The plan made sense. He wasn’t sure about the horses, but he could try.

“We need to find you two some armor and weapons,” Thorin continued. “I think I saw some in the treasury. Perhaps there’s even a bow for you, but it won’t be much use on horseback. Hmm… Then some food and water. What else do you need? Maps?”

“Dunno. Cord?”

“What for?”

“Traps.”

“I’m sending you scouting, not hunting.”

“Yeah, but there’s little food as it is. What’s the harm in bringing something back if I can?”

“You’ll just lose precious time.”

Rolling his eyes, Kili gave up trying to show initiative. This was Thorin Oakenshield, after all. He was their leader, and he had everything planned and decided in seconds. This was exactly what he’d been talking about with Fili.

But he was going to bring a cord anyway.

 

***

 _A Elbereth_ , there was frost in the grass! Tauriel blinked as she focussed her gaze on the silvery stretch of meadow in front of her, glistening in the grey pre-dawn light. The tips of her boots were frosted as well.

The redhead shivered and stood up from her seat below a tree, instantly tripping over her own numb feet and landing on her hands and knees in the crunchy grass. Tauriel cursed under her breath and got up again. She hopped from one foot to the other, rubbed her arms and stretched her legs. She _hated_ cold. It was saying something about her lack of sleep, that she had managed to slip in a dreamy daze while guarding the camp. She couldn’t afford such slips. She couldn’t afford making a single mistake on this campaign, and it had nothing to do with Thranduil. They were out of the Realm, and she was in a position of command, so, no, she could not doze off while staring at the forest.

Although, it looked so mesmerizing and innocent that it was hard to remember its dangers.

Yesterday, the elves had crossed the swamps on the north side of the Forest River, and they had entered the desolate grasslands between the Mirkwood and the River Running. They had kept to the edge of the forest, watching their flanks and scouting ahead.

Now, it was still some time before dawn, and the eaves of the forest were wrapped in a milky mist, hiding the darkness and shrouding the secrets of Mirkwood. In a sudden flash of spite, Tauriel wished it soaked the fur of the spiders, weighed down their nets and dampened their nests.

She turned on her heel and gazed out over the grasslands. The view of the vast frosted expanse took her breath away.

Somewhere there, behind the gently rolling hills, lay the valley of the River Running. Tauriel knew it was an ice-cold river with violent rapids and bends. Its source was somewhere under the Lonely Mountain, and then it rumbled its way through the ruin of Dale, slashed through the foothills and only barely slowed down before falling into Long Lake.

Tauriel glanced at the solitary peak of the Mountain rising in the distance. The first slanting rays of sun were turning its snow-capped summit to a rosy gold, and it had been a long time since Tauriel had seen anything as beautiful.

The world was so large and wonderful. She thought about the northern wastes, the Grey Mountains and the Iron Hills. She glanced south, imagining where the Sea of Rhun lay a thousand miles beyond the horizon. All her six hundred and twenty-four years she had spent in Mirkwood, never going further than Laketown or the great river Anduin.

But Kili had crossed half the world to come here. He had seen the Blue Mountains, the Shire of the hobbits, ancient Rhudaur, Dunland, the Hidden Valley. He had crossed the Misty Mountains and the wilderness between the Anduin and Mirkwood.

And it was strange how, with all her six hundred and twenty-four years, the reckless young dwarf seemed to have become her focus in a world that was so vast and changing. It felt like an invisible thread was connecting her to him, calling her to him. His soft brown gaze made her heart beat faster, his touch — so real, warm and solid — made her breath hitch. It was like waking up from a dream and living fully for the first time, drowning in the scents and sounds of the beautiful world all around her. Until now she had experienced something similar only when fighting, when spatters of blood had been flowing through the air, and when her lightning-quick steel had cut flesh like mere butter. It held its own allure, but it did not compare.

She didn’t know what to make of it.

Tauriel hugged herself against the morning chill as she looked at the shadows slowly descending from Erebor, sun rising up in the east. She wanted to go there. She didn’t know what she would say to him, but she wanted to see him. She liked him — the hunter, thatcher, tanner, painter… Tauriel smiled at the memory.

A blind fool could see that the dwarf was taken with her, but Tauriel hoped it was just a passing fancy, born from saving his life. She didn’t want to break his heart, because after all, she was just curious about him, and the rest, well, there had to be some explanation. Perhaps it was just her response to his own focussed interest.

Surely she couldn’t be in love with a _dwarf_. She had already dismissed that possibility back in Bard’s house, and nothing had changed since then — it was absurd, and foolish to even consider.

Staring at the Lonely Mountain, Tauriel felt a tightness growing in her throat as she realized the falsehood of her own statement. Not a dwarf, a _man_. She had seen him as a man ever since she laid her hands on him in Laketown, and she had almost blurted as much to him when he’d gathered her under his blanket that night on the shore.

Tauriel shook her head. This was complete and utter nonsense. She didn’t have time for that. She would stand guard for a little while longer, then go back to the camp, rebraid her hair, have some breakfast and then march on with the Elvenking’s host.

Shivering slightly, she reached out her hand towards the sun, but its warmth was weak and elusive. Sighing, Tauriel pulled her hand in a fist. Empty. It was just light, nothing real to hold on to.

She didn’t know why it upset her so.

“Tauriel!”

Jarred from her thoughts, the Captain snapped to attention, instinctively going over the possible explanations for her standing there with eyes closed, her back turned to the forest she was supposed to be watching. Then she realized it was just Legolas.

“Follow me,” the prince ordered, walking past her with a purposeful stride and then continuing towards the camp, three silent scouts following him just as briskly.

Now perplexed and annoyed at her friend’s tone, Tauriel rushed after the group.

“Why? What happened?” she called out to his back as they crossed some yellow-red maples on the side of the camp. A few guards wordlessly greeted Tauriel as she took in the small camp fires, the quick and orderly dismantling of the tents. Despite living in peace for more than a century, the Elvenking’s army was well trained and prepared. Legolas huffed.

“Come and you’ll see. In a way, it’s your area of expertise.”

“ _What_ are you talking about?”

“Dwarves,” Legolas spat, weaving his way through the camp and stopping at Thranduil’s tent. “Apparently they’re _alive_.”

Tauriel recoiled as if slapped. She stared at Legolas, and for the life of her, she couldn’t understand where such spite could have come from. How could he be so _cruel_? How could he be her closest friend, a trusted brother in arms one moment, and a vicious, arrogant princeling the next? 

“Come,” he motioned, opening the flap and stepping inside. Still speechless, Tauriel followed him, while the other scouts returned to their company.

The King was sitting at a table writing a letter, his back rigid and long legs elegantly crossed. Seeing Legolas, he put down the quill.

“You have news?”

“Father,” the prince greeted. He picked a scroll from a case near the entrance and unrolled a map of the area, spreading it out on the King’s table. Tauriel nodded a silent greeting and edged closer, trying to see what Legolas was showing.

“My scouts and I had gone north tonight,” Legolas explained, indicating the location on the map. “An hour before the dawn, we saw two dwarves on horseback. They came from the direction of the Lonely Mountain and galloped towards the north-west. What would you make of that, Father?”

Thranduil raised one eyebrow as he bent slightly over the map. Tauriel bit her lip.

“Well, it’s clear that at least two dwarves are alive,” the Elvenking concluded. He tapped his chin with the quill, a faraway look in his eyes. “We must still consider both possibilities — the Mountain could be reclaimed by the dwarves, or it could be still in the dragon’s clutches, with those two being the only survivors running back home. Be careful and continue watching if they return as we turn towards the east.”

Legolas clenched his jaw. He had evidently expected a stronger response from his father. Tauriel narrowed her eyes, wondering what really had transpired that could have made the prince so angry. She caught the King’s glance as Legolas all but stomped out of the tent. Tauriel clasped her hands in front of her and remained waiting for her orders.

Thranduil nodded, a small smile playing around his eyes.

“You have done well, Captain,” he said as he reclined in his chair, twirling the quill in his hand. “Your preparations have been well-planned and carefully executed; I checked them myself before leaving the Halls. After that unfortunate escape of our prisoners, your Guard is setting an example of readiness and attention. Continue doing your job as well as you have, and your efforts will not go unrecognized.”

Tauriel stood straighter, biting her lip to stop her proud grin from stretching ear to ear. She was happily surprised, but she couldn’t help suspecting that the King’s praise was just a prelude to something unpleasant. It often was.

The King narrowed his eyes at her, but there was a rare amused sparkle there. “Considering your preference for specific, detailed instruction, however, I would ask you to take a rough third of your Guard and stay in the rear. It is extremely important that we know what those dwarves are doing in the north. Instruct your deputy to take over the rest of your duties and tell my son to do likewise with his scouts, except that he himself is to remain with the main host. Is that clear enough, Captain?”

Tauriel fought back a smile.

“Completely, my lord. I’m on my way.” She bowed and turned to go, when the King called her back.

“What was that girl’s name again?”

Tauriel glanced back, amused at the nonchalant expression on her King’s face as he studied his quill.

“My deputy? Edhel, sire.”

“Hm. I knew that.”

Biting back another grin and an exasperated sigh, Tauriel took her leave and exited the tent. Thranduil was... Valar, he was simply being Thranduil.

Finally allowing herself a chuckle, Tauriel went to find her deputy and her prince. This was not the first time Legolas had said something stupid to her, and most probably it was not the last. She just wanted to find out what had happened and to pass on his father’s orders. And then she’d get her few things and move to the rearguard, and not have to deal with him for the next couple of days, which was suddenly something Tauriel was quite looking forward to.

 

***

The dusty ground was running away beneath the hooves of the bay horse, the cold air whipping harshly against Kili’s face as he grinned in wondrous excitement. When they had set out before the dawn, it had taken him some time to adjust his seat and figure out how to get up and down from the saddle, but, Mahal, this was the first time he was riding a _horse_ , not a pony! Small though it was, bred by the Lakemen, the sensation of flying with the wind, the speed, the unspeakable joy of freedom and the open sky over his head, it was thrilling beyond measure.

“Slow down, lad!” came Dwalin’s voice from behind.

Kili laughed as he looked back over his shoulder and got his mouth full of hair.

“Better you hurry up, Mister Dwalin! We’ve got a long way to go!”

“Slow down that infernal horse this instant or I’ll break your neck myself!”

Kili chuckled, but this time he obeyed, shifting his weight backwards and pulling the reins. The bay slowed down to a relaxed canter and then to a trot, as Kili turned it in a circle, waiting for his companion to catch up. It was taking Kili some effort to control the beast, especially since the shortened stirrups didn’t quite reach its flanks. That was another reason galloping in a straight line was so tempting. In addition, it was keeping him awake.

“How can you notice anything at such speed?” Dwalin huffed as he rode nearer on his own dun mare.

Kili shrugged and glanced back to the north. “What’s there to notice? Grasslands and small bushes as far as the eye can see; Mirkwood barely there on the horizon. There is nothing here, Dwalin. They haven’t got this far yet.”

“And how many stream beds did we cross? How many ravines? The next time the raven tells Thorin that the enemy is at ‘three days’ distance from the tallest pine that's growing near a huge ant-hill’, what are you gonna tell him, you fool?”

The younger dwarf bowed his head. Dwalin was right, he had got carried away.

“Chin up, lad,” the warrior grumbled, nudging his horse and passing Kili. “That’s why I’m here. You look for their tracks and I’ll figure out what to do with them…”

The archer turned and followed him without a comment.

The sun was at its highest point in the sky, and they had been riding for hours. The warmth and the now-peaceful rocking of the saddle were lulling him to sleep, and every now and then Kili found himself nodding off.

He was tired. He had been placing stone blocks for a whole day, and then there had been that issue with Hawke, and then Thorin had assigned him the worst guard shift, in the middle of the night. And then, standing knee-deep in gold, he had been digging up armour, trying to find anything large enough to fit Dwalin, tossing aside rusty swords and notched daggers while Thorin had been explaining to a bleary-eyed Ori which area maps he needed copied and on what scale.

Kili yawned.

The short encounter with Legolas had been quite exciting, to say the least. The archer smirked as he remembered the livid look on the prince’s face.

They had almost run him down; unintentionally, of course. The elf had been crouching hidden in a thicket of grass, and Kili honestly had not seen him there; the elf had tumbled out of the way at the very last second. Spooked, the horse had reared up, almost hitting the blond in the head, and Kili had barely managed to stay in the saddle and turn the horse aside when the elf had jumped up and trained an arrow at his chest.

“This is your end, dwarf,” Legolas had snarled, moments before Dwalin had knocked him back to the ground. Kili had snatched the weapon from the elf’s momentarily flailing arms, and then Dwalin had reached down and pulled his daggers from their sheaths too. In the end the elf had been crouching on the ground glaring at them, while the dwarves had ridden in circles around him, seething in anger and tempers flaring. The ancient swords that had survived Smaug had been drawn and raised in an instant.

“You stupid cretin,” Kili had raged, baring his teeth at the elf. “You blind, or what? Couldn’t get out of the way any sooner?!”

“Or I’d have preferred _later_ , you tree-hugging filth!” Dwalin snarled.

“That immortality’s filled your head with piss?”

“Pulling an arrow on somebody who’s just saved you!”

“Were you _asking_ for a hoof-print over the face?”

“You ungrateful, spider-fucking, inbred moron!”

“Wait, _what_?!”

“He is! A treacherous and arrogant flower sniffer if I ever saw one, filled with orc shit up to his ears!”

“ _Dwalin, enough!_ ” Kili had snapped at him in Khuzdul, shocked at the older dwarf’s florid language. As the first fright had passed, Kili’s anger had turned into relief, and after all, that was Tauriel’s prince they were shouting at. He had helped them on the Forest River. Kili had fought side by side with him on the lakeshore. Yeah, he was a grumpy git, but this seemed to be an honest accident. “ _Let’s go, we have a job to do_ ,” he had reminded his companion. “ _Remember the orcs he killed on the river, and let him be. There might be others lurking nearby, and we won’t have the surprise on our side again._ ”

With a deep frown, Dwalin had tossed the daggers in the grass, some twenty paces from where the elf was sitting. Turning the horse, he had spat at Legolas’ feet.

“Next time we won’t be so _generous_ ,” he had growled, and then they had raised their horses in a gallop, eager to get away from the area. Kili had thrown the bow in some bushes, and then they had ridden as if the wargs of Gundabad were at their heels, until the anger and fear had bled away completely, and only the amazing joy of speed had remained.

Now the whole thing seemed simply wrong and unnecessary. Kili and Legolas had _fought_ together, and for the dwarf that meant something. Did it mean nothing to the elves, or was this one just particularly hateful? Did it have something to do with the Elvenking’s not-so-secret march on Erebor? Kili growled under his breath. The excitement of the ride had waned, and he was sleepy and moody.

“Hey, Dwalin,” he called out. “Let’s stop and rest.”

The warrior glanced back over his shoulder. “Your bottom’s all tender already, boy?”

Kili glared at him. “Yeah, well, I’m learning from my mistakes, Mister Dwalin. Smart people like you should learn from the mistakes of others, before they make their own.”

Dwalin chuckled. “You’re growing mouthy, laddie. I like that.”

The younger dwarf smirked. He had his pride alright, but he also remembered the armoury, when he had fallen down the stairs because of his injury.

“I’ve slept a couple of hours, you slept almost through the night,” he pointed out. “Would be stupid to die because of that.”

“Aye, it would indeed,” Dwalin agreed, casting a look around. “That thicket looks good enough to you, princess?”

Kili laughed.

“It does!” he chuckled in delight. “Now if only I had my feather bed and down pillows!”

“And a nice rug at the side, lest your silk slippers get muddy.”

“Aw, nonsense, you will carry me to bed, if need be, my brave warrior!”

“How does your mother suffer you I wonder?”

“No idea, honestly.”

“None at all?”

“Nope. Swear by my beard…”

“You don’t have a beard, lad.”

“My point exactly.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The picture is a collage from pieces of internet, and the whole thing was kindly betaed by iscatterthemintimeandspace.  
>  _jezeraz_ — (smth) of rope (Khuzd.), I mean, it's a macrame belt.
> 
> Comments are always appreciated!
> 
>    
> [04.07.2014 Note: due to a major change between projects at work, all my writing is on hiatus till autumn, unless I'm suddenly hit by a muse on caffeine who will not take no for an answer. Sorry.]
> 
> [28.07.2014 Note: The darndest thing happened — I got Sirinne's permission to use her artwork as illustrations, so there's a new pic in Ch1! She's not drawing _for_ this fic, and "illustrations" might not be an exactly accurate term, but I love them and the majority of my Hawke/Anders feeeels come from them, so feel free to go and check out [her gallery at DA](http://sirinne.deviantart.com/gallery).
> 
> Also, the case referred to in Note One happened (as suspected), and a fluffy, linguistically cultural pre-quest character study of Kili and Dis [was born](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1880634/chapters/4051440).]


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Action! Angst! More trouble!
> 
> I am back and will try to update more or less regularly now :)  
> A thank you to iscatterthemintimeandspace for bearing with me, and a warning for a quite severe case of unreliable narrator in Fili's POV segment.

 

_speak to me, i call on you_   
_don't know what i have turned into_   
_my memory bears no peace of mind_   
_all channels have gone deaf and blind_   
  
_now speak to me, i trust in you_   
_your vision's clear, your words are true_   
_your eyes reveal the world behind_   
_i've come to see what i can find_   
_[Rotersand]_

 

Hawke was sitting on the battlements with Bilbo and Nori, a cold wind thrashing her short black hair around her face. She should be working the hoist again, but the newly made pulley was damaging the rope, and since they didn’t have many of those to spare, Nori had taken the pulley off and was polishing it with some stone right now. The dwarf was whistling under his breath, the carefree sound in strange contrast with the bleak weather.

Bilbo was sitting on the parapet in front of Hawke, changing the wrappings on her left forearm. Oin had refused to treat her. He had outright refused to even touch her.

Hawke shivered as she stared out at the valley below the wall. They were all afraid of her now, the mage, the abomination. The wretched woman who had almost killed her companion — and they didn’t even know how close she had been to casting that spell a second time.

“Sit still, Miss Hawke,” the hobbit reminded her. Hawke winced as he carefully peeled off the bloody bandages.

Bilbo soaked the cleanest end of the bandage in a bowl of water and dabbed at her forearm, trying to wash away the fresh blood that had welled up from the cuts. “I’m sorry I can’t do anything more,” he muttered. “These will scar, I think.”

Hawke shrugged. “Small price for a mountain,” she said, glancing away again. “It’s not the first time I cut my hands, Bilbo. It’s just that normally I would have healing magic available.”

The hobbit’s light hold on her arm became even lighter, and Hawke smirked. It was almost sad, how used she was to being treated with fear. At Fili’s orders, the hobbit had been keeping an eye on her the whole morning, and she could tell that his kind heart had only barely won out his wariness. Hawke appreciated it a lot.

Nevertheless, the mage didn’t want to talk, not even to the hobbit.

Bilbo pressed his lips in a thin line and went back to cleaning Hawke’s arm. He carefully dressed it in a clean bandage and tied the ends in a double knot at her elbow. Hawke muttered a thank you and hugged her arm to her stomach. Then they both just sat and stared out at the valley.

She felt strangely deflated. The momentum from a promise made in afterlife, which had carried her this far, had faded. She still intended to keep it, but she hadn’t expected there would be so much fresh pain and memories from Kirkwall to deal with. Death had taken her away from all that, letting her look back with some sort of a detachment. Now that she was faced with it night after night, remembering, longing and trying to understand, she had started noticing parallels and similarities where she had seen none before, where there had been just a nagging sense of right or wrong.

It was time to look around and move forward, to rise above the ashes of Kirkwall.

Hawke stared out at the play of light where the River Running was splashing over rocks, white foam and drops of water glistening in the air. She remembered the magic she had stumbled upon almost ten years ago when delivering some herbs to Anders. It had been a radiant display of beauty, compassion and love, a hymn to life itself, and no matter how badly it had all ended, Hawke would always remember that light shining in the darkest of places in Kirkwall.

Last night, after Dwalin had turned the lock in her cell and left, cursing her foul magic and callousness, Hawke had lain down on the stone floor and, ignoring Bilbo’s questions, had stared up at the ceiling for hours. Fili had come and taken the hobbit away, and still she lay there as some strange offering to a non-existent god.

“I sense the darkness in you, little sorcerer,” Smaug had said, “the same darkness that lies heavy on Thorin Oakenshield’s mind. Why do you fight it? Why do you not reach for the power that is at your fingertips?”

Why did she, Hawke had wondered last night. Why did she still follow the old Chantry rules, why did she clamp down on her power, when thousands had died with barely any magic at all, just some devastating combination of drakestone and dung? Why did she resist, when every last bit of her magic would be needed to help win the battle of Erebor? Having learned what she’d done, the Company hated her now, so why bother pretending to be honourable when instead she could embrace that dark power beckoning to her from the Fade, and do so much more for them?

She had always assumed the responsibility for her magic.

However, with no moral restrictions holding her back, she would become a living weapon, a primal force without mercy or regret. Blood magic fed on life and emotion, and the stronger, the better. Combined with entropy spells, it could tear a mind asunder, and paralyze with nightmarish fear, tormenting its victims with illusions of being turned inside out, of maggots eating one’s living flesh. She could invade minds and make the enemy cut off their own hands, to turn on their friends and kill their own sons.

Yes, there was darkness in her — the knowledge of a blood mage, the creativity of an apostate, the determination of a woman who had killed her lover and then died herself.

Hawke knew it, and she didn’t want to go there. She feared losing herself completely, and that there would be no one to pull her back up in the light. That nobody would see anything worth saving in her in the first place.

She watched the shimmering waves of the River Running, following them with her gaze. She wanted… She wanted to believe that there was still hope for her. Hawke glanced down at her clean bandage. Nori was still whistling behind her back. It was not much, but it was two people showing her simple kindness when she needed it the most. The thief and the hobbit — and Thorin.

The dwarf lord was the only person she had ever met who would have the guts for a job of this scale. The only one to have enough strength and sheer force of will to command _her_ on a battlefield. That he hadn’t turned his back on her when he found out about Bard, meant a lot to the mage.

Hawke narrowed her eyes, wondering if the shimmer on the horizon might be the Long Lake. She tried to figure out how long it might take for the army of Lakemen to reach Erebor. Considering that Bard was here, in this timeline the men would probably be led by the Master — if the arrogant fool even deigned to leave his mansion. He might as well be sitting tight and waiting for those rivers of gold to come to him on their own, not willing to risk the dragon’s wrath in case Thorin had failed.

Oh.

The Lakemen wouldn’t know about the dragon lying _dead_ just inside the entrance, would they?

The mage took a deep breath and glanced over her shoulder at her companions.

“We have a problem. Do either of you know where Thorin has disappeared to?”

 

 

***

“Wha- what problem?” the hobbit huffed as he hastened after the mage. “What are you talking about, Miss Hawke? And would you just stop and wait for me!”

“Oh don’t worry, Bilbo, she’s not running away...” came up Nori’s calm nasal voice from behind, as he followed them at a more leisurely pace.

In a few blinks of an eye, Hawke’s long stride had carried her to where the other dwarves were working on the wall. Thorin was not among them — she’d have recognized his black mane immediately.

“What’s the urgency, wizard?” Gloin snarled at her.

“Where’s your leader?” Hawke asked, ignoring the pointed looks and frowns the dwarves were sending her way. “Fili, where’s your uncle?”

The blond put down the chisel and slowly stood up from his workplace among the stone blocks. “I don’t rightly know. He was still sleeping on his bedroll when I woke Kili for his guard shift. He didn’t return after Kili and Dwalin left.”

“Left where?” Hawke frowned.

Bombur made some strange noise between a growl and a whimper, and Gloin openly glared at her. Fili, though having answered her first question, was watching her with a shuttered, unreadable expression. Bofur stood behind his brother’s shoulder, a hammer in his hands and a hard look on his normally jovial face. The mage had to count to ten so as not to bash their stupid heads on the rocks.

“Oh, calm down, boys,” the heavy silence was interrupted by Balin’s soft voice. He nudged Fili in the side, and the prince stepped back, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Thorin sent them off to investigate something — that much I can tell you. But where he is...”

“He might be in the treasury,” Ori nervously mentioned. “I was copying some maps there, while Thorin and Kili were looking for weapons and armour.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes at the scribe, and the young dwarf crossed his arms and raised his chin defiantly. It was clear as day that the dwarves didn’t trust her. Hawke didn’t care anymore. Turning on her heel, she strode away, hoping to find the treasury without getting lost in the mountain.

With one look at Fili, Bilbo sighed and scampered after her.

 

 

***

“Stop, you’ll get lost! Stop, I said! No, right turn, Miss Hawke!”

The mage turned and went back, took the right turn and hurried further down the corridor. The hobbit groaned behind her. “Confound and confusticate those wizards!”

That stopped Hawke in her tracks. “What was that?”

Bilbo was panting as he finally caught up to her. “What was what?”

“You were swearing?”

“Oh, that! It’s not really swearing, Miss Hawke. Just... I am to keep an eye on you, so just... slow down!”

Hawke cast him a sceptical glance. The whole idea of ‘watching her’ had failed the moment she entered the mountain, with nobody to stop her should she decide to hurt the hobbit. She wasn’t going to, but it did say something about Bilbo’s trust and Fili’s oversight.

“Alright,” she agreed.

They continued more slowly, with the hobbit leading the way. He said it was some underground sense that all hobbits had. Hawke didn’t like to think about it. Having been trapped in the Deep Roads, there was only so much stone she could bear pressing down on her mind and senses.

“Well, here we are,” the hobbit announced as they left a narrow corridor and stepped out on a landing. “The cursed dragon hoard of Erebor.”

Hawke let out a low whistle. “Holy mother of…”

From wall to wall, gold was covering every single inch of the floor. It rose in piles and mounds, an uneven terrain of shiny metal formed by its own weight and heavy dragon paws. Sturdy chests lay broken open on the treasure, gushing out their priceless contents of heavy gold cups, silver bracelets and diadems. Chainmail, helmets, swords, daggers, axes and other weapons could be seen scattered amid the coins, precious stones and solid bars of gold. The wealth was unimaginable.

For a long moment Hawke stood still, speechless and stunned. Not even in her wildest dreams could she have imagined the true volume of the treasure Thorin had been talking about.

“This... all this belongs to the dwarves?” she asked, her voice shaking.

Bilbo crossed his arms, regarding the treasure with dislike.

“I guess now it does, yes. Minus something as payment to the Company, something for Bard, so he could rebuild Dale... Maybe something for the Elvenking, to forget old grudges... If Thorin comes to his senses, that is.”

Hawke glanced down at the hobbit, then back at the endless riches lying at her feet. It was now easy to understand the weight it had in Thorin’s decisions and why every nation this side of the Misty Mountains wanted to try their luck in claiming the mountain.

“He cannot afford quarrels with his old allies right now,” Hawke murmured as she followed the hobbit down the steps. “But it is his gold, and we cannot force his hand, Bilbo. I’m sure there must be another way how to-” The mage bumped into the hobbit as he suddenly stopped on the landing. “What..?”

Without words, Bilbo raised his arm, pointing at Thorin, who was sleeping slumped over a pile of gold coins. He was huddled in the cloak that the Lakemen had given him, his hair a dark mess over his face and shoulders.

“Only Arkenstone missing to complete the picture,” Bilbo muttered darkly. Hawke put her hand on his shoulder, and the hobbit sagged as if the whole weight of the mountain was crushing him to the ground.

“I think he’s just sleeping,” Hawke said.

“He’s sleeping sprawled all over his gold,” Bilbo snapped unhappily. “Why is he sleeping on his gold? Because Smaug cursed it, and because his grandfather went mad with it, and now Thorin...”

“You heard what Ori said, that they’d been looking for stuff here.”

The hobbit flashed her an angry glance and then stomped down the remaining steps.

“Well? Are you coming?” he asked over his shoulder. “The last time I saw him, he was shaking me like a rag doll, demanding to know where I’ve hidden that blasted stone. Better you wake him up, not me.”

With one more glance around the vast hall, Hawke followed the hobbit and then crouched down in the dwarf’s line of sight.

“Thorin? Thorin, get up.” She lightly shook him by the shoulder. It seemed clear to her that the dwarf had simply been tired. Why nobody had brought him back to the sleeping quarters was a good question, but it wasn’t important now.

Slowly, the dwarf woke, bleary-eyed and somewhat dizzy, his fighter’s training obviously warring with the exhaustion of the past few days. Hawke sat down cross-legged in front of him and waited, while the hobbit fidgeted some paces aside.

It was strange to see the mighty king so disoriented, with dark circles under his eyes and vague coin marks on his cheek. It was also strange to see him waking so slowly when Hawke and Bilbo were probably two of his least favourite persons in the mountain right now.

“What?” he snapped, then grimaced and started to rub his cheek.

“We have a problem,” Hawke said. “There are elves coming to claim your gold from Mirkwood, and orcs coming to do the same, from Mount Gundabad.”

“You told me that already,” Thorin growled, then noticed Bilbo and frowned. The hobbit had made a strange noise at Hawke’s mention of orcs and sat down heavily on another pile of coins.

“Right. But the Lakemen are not coming,” Hawke continued.

“Apparently the men have more honour than the elves.”

“Yes, but the elves cannot defeat the orcs and wargs, and bats on their own. Especially, if at the same time you are fighting the elves.”

“By the time they’ll be here, so will my cousin Dain.”

Hawke shook her head. “Laketown should have about three hundred fighters, about as many as your cousin. Elves have about three thousand warriors. The army from Gundabad measures in tens of thousands.”

The dwarf’s eyes widened at the number. He slowly got up and glared down at the mage.

“How do you know?”

“You told me yourself. In the afterlife.”

Thorin’s shoulders tensed, as he turned away. Bilbo cast her a confused glance, and Hawke shrugged. She had forgotten that Bilbo was not yet in the cell with her when she had first talked with Thorin.

“In a different world, this has happened before,” she explained to the hobbit curtly, “and I know how and when, and I’m trying to prevent it from happening again.” She looked up at the brooding dwarf. “Thorin, I… I don’t know what else I could say, to make you believe me.”

“The size of the Elvenking’s army, what you just said, matches what my ravens tell me,” Thorin admitted grudgingly.

“Then believe me about those wargs and orcs as well,” Hawke implored him. “Thorin, you need Laketown, just as much as you need to lay aside all your differences with the Elvenking. At least, for now. This threat is much more important than your pride.”

The dwarf turned on her sharply.

“What pride are you talking about?” he asked, eyes blazing in the golden twilight. “That traitor is marching on Erebor with all his force, hoping to find our charred remains at the gate! He turned his back on us, allowing the dragon to plunder and kill, refusing to help my people, to even provide us with food and shelter as we ran for our lives, our women and children perishing in the flames and the chaos. And now he’s ready to take on the dragon, after he’s kept us prisoner and called us foolish children? Now he thinks he can just take my mountain and have my jewels? Over my dead body, Hawke! I’m not - negotiating - with that – _traitor_!”

Thorin kicked the coins in front of him and let out a long stream of curses. The dwarf’s fists were clenched at his sides, his shoulders tense, and, with the corner of her eye, the mage saw Bilbo swallow. Considering their previous interaction, it was small wonder the hobbit was wary of the dwarf’s temper.

“Can we… Thorin, can we split the whole issue in two?” Hawke suggested. “First deal with the orcs and then talk — or not talk — about the treasure with the elves?”

She could see Thorin roll his shoulders and take a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down, to wind his temper back into the tight coil that it had been for the last few days. Hawke bit her lip.

She glanced at the hobbit, trying to figure out how to get through to the dwarf. Catching her glance, Bilbo picked up a coin and angrily showed it to the mage. Hawke shook her head. She still didn’t believe Thorin to be suffering from the gold sickness. Stubbornness and old grudges yes, but not a cursed mind.

The hobbit smacked his forehead and sighed.

“Look, he can get my share, if it helps,” Bilbo said. “There’s no way I’ll be able to haul one fourteenth of this treasure back to the Shire anyway. So give it to the Elvenking, if that means we all get out of this battle alive.”

Thorin frowned as he looked down at his burglar.

“Who says I’m splitting the whole treasure of my people among the fourteen of the Company?”

Bilbo frowned back at him. “The contract says: ‘up to and not more than one fourteenth of the total profit’.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Thorin snapped at him, and, still sitting on the gold, Bilbo crawled back a few steps. “Maybe you want also one fourteenth of the Mountain itself? The gold belongs with Erebor!”

“Ermm…” Hawke raised her hand, trying to interrupt. “Thorin!”

“What!”

“I think the hobbit’s right.”

“Considering what he’s done, the hobbit’s in very real danger of losing _any_ right!”

“Hey, but he didn’t do anything; you got your Arkenstone back!”

The king stilled, boring her with his gaze. Then he looked up at the mounds of gold spreading out all around him, his face shuttered and his hands clenched in fists by his sides.

“You said that initially the idea was to only come get the Arkenstone,” Hawke continued, watching the dwarf’s reaction closely. “You would have returned with an army to reclaim the mountain and the gold, and that would have been a different quest, with different terms and conditions. But when you decided to try and kill the dragon _now_ , you added the hoard to the potential profits of _this_ quest.”

Thorin had closed his eyes, his breathing laboured and uneven. Hawke clenched her teeth and glanced at the hobbit again, who was staring right back at her, his expression unreadable.

“I don’t understand you, Hawke,” Thorin said quietly. “All my life, I have been fighting for this, when people shut the doors in my face, when old alliances were suddenly forgotten and promises became conditional. Then Gandalf gets me the key from the hidden door, and gets me a plan and a burglar, and for once in my life things are going my way, but then the wizard leaves and the burglar betrays me. Then you show up and kill the dragon, giving us back our home — but now you intend to destroy everything…”

“I’m not destroying anything, Thorin.”

The dwarf sighed, still looking away from her, drinking in the sight of his gold, as if it could disappear any moment.

“I’m just saying that Bilbo has a point in claiming some of the treasure,” Hawke continued. “How much of it you’re splitting, that is for you to decide, I guess. After all, the contract said ‘ _not more_ than one fourteenth’, right?”

Bilbo nodded. “And I’m more than willing to part with it, if it helps settle your differences with the Elvenking.”

“If it ever comes to it,” Hawke quickly added. She sat up, straightening her back and looking between the hobbit and the dwarf. “Thorin, you’re good with contracts and agreements. You can figure out what to tell the elves, to get them to cooperate for now. After all, orcs are a common enemy.”

Thorin ran his hand through his hair and slowly exhaled. “Alright, Hawke,” he nodded. “Balrog take that craven plant louse, but alright, I will try and not spit in his face when he shows up... But I’m not giving away one coin from this treasury before the battle’s done — neither Bilbo’s share, nor anybody else’s,” Thorin said, pinning her with a steely gaze.

Bilbo blinked in surprise just as Hawke bent her head, trying to hide a triumphant grin.

“I didn’t think you’d relent,” the hobbit quietly said.

Thorin chuckled mirthlessly. “That is the power of numbers, burglar. We dwarves are as pragmatic and calculating as we are stubborn.”

The hobbit shrugged despondently. “Even with the elves’ help, it seems we might all die anyway.”

“Oh no,” Hawke protested, and Thorin shook his head as well.

“I will not lose Erebor again,” the dwarf declared heatedly. “Not to elves, not to orcs, not to anyone!”

“We still have some time, and we have the information, so we can prepare and start negotiations with the elves,” Hawke added.

“Kili and Dwalin are scouting, they will bring more detailed news. And we will be prepared.”

“The wall is almost ready, nobody will be able to enter the mountain without our leave.”

“We have the food that they brought from Laketown, we have water and good dwarven armour.”

Hawke chuckled, surprised by how easily they had both assumed a common front reassuring the hobbit.

“Maybe I can get my staff back? Or do you still doubt me, Thorin?” she asked impishly.

The dwarf stared at Hawke. “You must be joking,” he decided. “My burglar, who I have known for months, just tried to betray me-“

“I did not!”

 “-and now you, who I met barely five days ago, want me to trust you just like that?”

“Well, I haven’t fucked up yet.”

“Then how do you call Bard’s condition?”

“That was before we met!”

“And since then you have spent half your time under a lock, without your staff and without a _chance_ to fuck up, as you so eloquently put it!”

The mage groaned, as she reined in her urge to strangle the dwarf with her bare hands.

“I came this far, I’m not watching from the side lines! And without magic I’m as good as dead.”

Thorin narrowed his eyes at her. “And if I forbade, you’d go into battle without any spells?”

“Of course not! But don’t push me away, Thorin! Just tell me what I have to do, for you to trust me!”

The dwarf rolled his eyes. “I will think about it,” he said. “But I’m not signing any contracts with you, and you’re not getting anything until this is over!”

“As if I’d sign anything drafted by you in your own language, in unfamiliar script…”

The hobbit cleared his throat. “Laketown. We need to discuss Laketown.”

 “Right,” Thorin agreed, squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath. “I want Balin and Fili for this. Get up you two, we have a lot to discuss.”

As he turned and started going up the steps, Hawke thought he looked somewhat calmer, less tense than before she had brought up the splitting of the treasure. It seemed somewhat illogical, but whatever the reason was, she was glad about it. The last thing she needed was for Thorin to snap.

Hurrying up the stairs, she quickly caught up with Bilbo.

“Contracts,” she whispered conspiratorially and poked the hobbit in the shoulder as they followed Thorin down the corridor. “Contracts, gold, honour, and sheer numbers — that’s the language that gets through his thick skull!”

Bilbo pursed his lips and shook his curly head.

“I don’t care for gold,” he whispered back at her. “And I still hate how he looks at it.”

The mage winked at him. “Probably the same way you look at your larder when it’s full.”

“That’s absurd!”

“Well, think of all the delicious meals you could make with a wide variety of vegetables and fresh fruit, exquisite preserves and cheeses, smoked salmon, nuts and raisins…”

Thorin growled at them over his shoulder.

Bilbo sighed. “Puts living on cram and gruel in perspective, doesn’t it?”

 

 

***

The door of the dusty council room swung shut behind Bard’s youngest, and Fili assumed that now all the invited were present — Uncle Thorin and his burglar, Balin, himself, Bard, leaning heavily on Bain and Sigrid, and little Tilda, because the bargeman probably didn’t want to leave her with the dwarves that were still working on the wall outside.

And the wizard woman was there too, leaning casually against the round stone table, arms crossed over her chest. It seemed that she and Bard both tried to avoid each other’s eyes. That didn’t stop Sigrid from glaring at her.

“Alright,” Thorin started, leaning over the table and unrolling a map. He dug into his pocket and pulled out some precious stones that he placed on the corners to keep it from rolling up again. Fili raised an eyebrow.

“As you may have heard, the Elvenking’s army is marching on Erebor.”

Sitting at the table, Bard looked at him in disbelief.

“What for?” he asked. “He’s going to wage a war with a handful of dwarves? I know you parted on unfriendly terms, but what did you do to him?”

“That, my lad, is a long story best saved for later,” Balin spoke up before Thorin had even opened his mouth. “We believe he might be coming for the treasure of Erebor, and to kill Smaug.”

“To kill us, you mean,” Bard noted, turning an angry glance at Fili. “Why did you bring my children here, then?”

“We are no seers, Master Bard,” Fili held his gaze. “We couldn’t know for sure that the dragon is dead. Had Smaug gone to Laketown, you would probably ask why your children were there.”

“Fili’s right,” Thorin said. “We can’t blame each other for the situation we’re in. That applies to you too,” he nodded at Hawke and Bard. “I expect you have a lot to say to each other, but that will have to wait.”

Bard huffed, and the wizard bit her lip and glanced up at the ceiling. Fili sighed. He wondered what his brother would say about the approaching elven army. It was bad enough as it was, but their Captain of the Guard was most probably marching among them too. What would Kili do? What _could_ he do?

Meanwhile, Thorin continued. “According to our raven scouts and other sources,” he waved at the wizard standing by his side, “their army is roughly three thousand strong. But — there is also an army of orcs and wargs coming from Mount Gundabad, and their numbers are estimated between fifteen and thirty thousand.”

Fili’s heart skipped a beat.  Suddenly weak in the knees, he leaned on the table and scrunched his eyes shut. “Thirty thousand?” he asked in disbelief.

Balin had gone as white as his hair. “Azanulbizar saw twenty thousand at most, and all the dwarf houses fought with us, and lost.” Thorin clenched his jaw, as shocked murmurs rose up in the room, Sigrid breaking down in sobs, Bilbo trying to calm her down, Bain and Tilda asking questions, Bard seething in helpless anger, as he sat with his head in his hands…

“We have not lost yet,” Thorin raised his voice forcefully. “Kili and Dwalin are scouting in the north; we will know when the enemy is coming. Dain will be here in a few days. And this is our land, our home. _We_ will be fighting from the upper positions on the foothills of the mountain, not them. _This will not be another Azanulbizar!_ ”

Fili had stopped listening. It was impossible to win against such odds, not even if the elves joined with the dwarves from the Iron Hills and the handful that was in Erebor. This was the end. The future he had been dreaming of, simply wasn’t going to happen.

The prince raised his head as an unprecedently harsh argument started between Balin and Thorin. There was a strange gleam in his uncle’s eyes as he stared down his trusted counsellor.

“No, Balin, I will not lower myself, trying to buy the Elvenking’s loyalty. Either he’s with us, or he’s with the orcs, but he will not get one coin from the treasury to help us win this war. Later, if he’s reasonable, we can talk about those white jewels, but not before.”

“It’s you who’s being unreasonable, Thorin,” the white-haired dwarf argued. “What does it matter? It’s cold, unfeeling gold; it’s not worth the lives of your people!”

“No, Balin, you’re wrong. That gold _is_ the life of my people, it’s our past and our future, and I’m not giving it to some treacherous, ancient snake just so he would do what’s right!”

“If it takes gold for him to do what’s right, then pay him!”

“I will not!”

“Then would you rather die like your grandfather, with nobody to return you to stone? Would you see your nephews bleed to death in a fight that you cannot possibly win? Hasn’t your sister suffered enough, Thorin?”

“Don’t bring Dis into this!” his uncle yelled, slamming his fist on the table.

Fili saw white light blaze through Hawke’s clenched hands, but she glanced down at Thorin and restrained herself, her jaw tight and shoulders tense. Ignoring the wizard, Balin shook his head in anger and dismay.

“You have changed, my boy. That cursed gold has gone to your head, and you’re not even listening!”

“Mahal’s beard, Balin, I have yet to hear one sensible suggestion from you!”

“I suggested you use the gold to ensure the Elvenking’s alliance, how is that not sensible?” Balin protested.

“I will not do it, I said!”

“Then would you rather have war?”

Thorin leaned over the table, an ugly sneer on his face.

“Aye, I’d rather have war!”

A shocked silence descended on the room. Fili couldn’t believe what he had just witnessed. He knew Thorin could be stubborn, but this went against all sense of self-preservation. And to see him arguing so viciously with one of his oldest friends, somebody he had known his whole life… Fili swallowed thickly, unsure of himself, unsure of what was wrong with his uncle.

Catching Tilda’s wide brown eyes as she glanced up at him over her father’s shoulder, Fili suddenly had a violent urge to break something, preferably against Thorin’s head.

He was going to die. They were all going to die, and nobody would bury their remains, and he would never see his mother again, would never see Feya, would never hear children’s laughter in his own halls. His golden beads would be trampled into mud, together with his hope and love, and promises and dreams.

All he could do was fight side by side with his brother — and die pointlessly but valiantly.

 

 

***

Sitting on his heels in the gathering darkness, Kili measured and cut off a piece of his cord, unravelled the strands and tied one in a noose with a sliding knot. Half a year on the road, and his hands had not forgotten the snares, or the knotwork. Tongue stuck out in concentration, he bent forward and carefully placed the loop on the small twigs hanging over a thicker branch that he had leaned against a pine. He tied the end of the strand around the branch and, satisfied, straightened up.

A squirrel would use the branch to run up the tree and get caught in the loop. It would then fall off the branch, hanging itself. It wasn't much but Kili wasn’t picky about his food, and neither was Dwalin. It would be a nice addition to cram.

Kili looked at their camp, where the warrior was sitting hunched in front of a small pit fire. He was studying Ori's maps, noting down his observations and adding creeks, ravines and thickets. The horses were nibbling on some branches, where Kili had tied them up for the night.

Quietly, the young dwarf got up and looked around him. Noticing another pine that squirrels or chipmunks might find tempting, he picked up another branch and started setting up another trap. As an experiment, he set a mushroom on the other side of the noose. Maybe the critters liked variety.

Again, Kili glanced back at Dwalin, barely able to make out his figure among the darkening trees; then quickly and efficiently set up a third snare. As the last daylight died in the west, he finally returned to the camp. Sitting down on his bedroll, he pulled out some cram and cheese from his sack and started eating.

There was the scent of snow in the air. The grass was frosted in the mornings, and Kili expected the first snowfall in a matter of days. In the Blue Mountains, the winter would set in about a week later, but here they were much farther inland, and the large northern wastes between Erebor and the Grey Mountains probably caused much harsher winds too.

They had made good progress over the last two days, falling into a wordless routine as they scouted the plains along the northern border of Mirkwood. Kili had almost forgotten the incident with the elf, instead concentrating on tracking and scouting. Through Dwalin's gruff comments, he was learning to look at the land from a new perspective, to recognize the obstacles and the vantage points, the good places and the bad. He had sort of known these things — they had taught him tactics in the Blue Mountains — but being out here with Dwalin was what finally brought the lessons home.

The warrior barely acknowledged him, scowling in concentration as he traced tiny lines on the maps. Kili didn’t want to disturb him, although by this point he was starting to seriously miss talking.

“How far do you want to go?” he asked his companion.

Dwalin raised his head and peered towards the west, as if he could see something in the near impenetrable darkness outside the tiny circle of his fire.

“We’re here.” He tapped the map on his knee, indicating their location for Kili. “That northernmost thicket the raven was talking about should be half a day’s ride from here. I figure we see what we can in the morning and then turn back east.”

Kili nodded. The further they went, the more likely it was that they would run into the enemy's own scouts. He didn’t like it much, but Dwalin was older and more experienced; Kili trusted his judgement. Besides, Thorin had not specified whose call it was to turn back.

That night, it took him a long while before he managed to fall asleep.

 

 

***

Thranduil stared at the letter in his hand, then flicked his wrist, turning the writing towards the envoy. The Lakeman standing in front of him was nervously turning his hat in his hands. The grey-robed wizard standing at the side harrumphed, glancing from the Elvenking to his visitor.

“Would you care explaining this?” the elf drawled.

“Th-there have been rumours, the whole town is abuzz with it, your majesty,” the man stammered, still fidgeting with his hat. “The Master of Laketown sent you the letter, and, well, it says everything, don’t it?”

Eyes half-lidded, Thranduil turned the letter towards Gandalf. The wizard took it from the king’s pale, ringed fingers and, quickly dismissing the sleazy greetings and polite nothings, cut straight to the heart of the matter.

“A conspiracy,” he read, raising both bushy eyebrows. “Between dwarves and elves, to evict the dragon from the mountain, let him feed on Lakemen and then split the gold evenly once the dragon has left.” The wizard lowered the letter and glanced at the messenger in wonder.

“Have you been keeping my Dorwinion and getting drunk on it yourselves?” the Elvenking beat him to the question.

“N-no, your majesty, o-of course not! Of course not! We wouldn’t even think about that! Not even when you…” the man waved at the letter.

Thranduil leaned forward in his seat.

“Get out of my camp,” he snarled. “Get back to your Master and tell him that I am not obliged to give him any explanations whatsoever, and if he cannot control his own drunkards and town rumours, then it is not the problem of the Woodland Realm.”

Once the tent flap closed behind the poor messenger, Gandalf turned to the king, giving him back the letter. With an amused chuckle, he poured himself some wine and relaxed into a chair.

“King Thranduil conspiring with Thorin Oakenshield, who’d have thought… And Thorin, splitting his gold evenly, hmm…”

The elf sat back without a comment and tapped his chin. Gandalf watched him, intrigued at the almost audible clicks and turns of the gears in the elf’s head, more than five thousand years of experience gnawing at the rumour of the impossible association.

His conclusion was somewhat surprising, in the wizard’s opinion.

The Elvenking sighed.

“Tauriel.”

 

 

***

Kili woke suddenly, confused and half lost in some hazy dream. Somebody was roughly shaking his shoulder, and when he opened his eyes, it was barely dawn, and Dwalin must have lost his mind, to wake him up so early.

“The horses sense something on the wind, so get up and help me saddle those damned beasts. Let’s get out of here,” the older dwarf growled and, for good measure, punched Kili on the shoulder.

“Ow!”

“Hush! Now rise and shine, and _make it quick_!”

Grumpy and groggy, Kili sat up and swore to himself. He hated sleeping in his chainmail, but both Thorin and Dwalin had insisted, so here he was, feeling as if somebody had been beating him up the whole night. Not to mention that it was downright chilling, and he was stiff and numb.

However, the sound of their horses stomping nervously on the ground woke him up quicker than any punch from Dwalin ever did.

“How long?” he asked, jumping to his feet and tying up his bedroll as quickly as his stiff fingers permitted.

“About ten minutes ago,” Dwalin answered, glancing over his shoulder into the dark blue mist covering the grasslands. “I heard some thrashing in the bushes — that was one of your damn squirrels. Collected the others, destroyed the snares. The fire pit is buried and hidden under the original piece of turf.”

Kili nodded, even now trying to remember and learn. He quickly smoothed the blanket and tightened the saddle belt of his bay, wincing at the creaking of the leather. The horse sputtered and stomped his foot again, restless and scared.

The warrior was already in the saddle, impatiently turning his horse in a circle. “You done?”

“Almost.”

Kili strapped his sleeping roll and bag to the saddle, and then froze, listening to the faint noises carried by the crisp autumn air.

That's when he heard the first howl.

"GO!" Barely thinking, he slapped Dwalin's mare on the quarters, sending her into a gallop within seconds; the older dwarf cursed, leaning down and clutching the mane, desperate to hold on. Kili kicked off and pulled himself up in the saddle, following Dwalin and hoping the horse did not throw him off. He could barely see the outline of the forest to his right, but ahead of them, the sky was already lighting up as a beacon of hope and safety.

Thankfully, the bay decided on a somewhat straight course along the line of the trees, so Kili could at least forget about manoeuvering the beast. He could barely make out Dwalin’s silhouette galloping in front of him. Kili allowed himself a short sigh of relief, and then another blood-curdling howl pierced the dawn.

Well, Kili thought with a slightly hysterical grin on his face, what better chance to see if the horses of Laketown ran faster than the warg scouts of Gundabad?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, now I'm really, really curious what you think about Thorin and Hawke at the moment... :D
> 
> Hawke's reference to the 'light shining in the darkest of places in Kirkwall' is a memory fleshed out in Ch1 of "[A Thousand Years](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1749947/chapters/3738989)", and the reason Fili's so pissed is in Ch2, _ibid._  
>  Also, there's "The Nameless Things", a nice prequel about Kili added to this series, which you might enjoy :)
> 
> Comments, feedback, criticism always welcome. I'm really trying to improve my writing here.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to iscatterthemintimeandspace, because this has been one helluva complicated chapter that has induced all sorts of parasitic plot bunnies and led down many a murky path into psychology and the subconscious...
> 
> Italics is either Sindarin or Khuzdul depending on the context.
> 
> Hawke/Thorin scene rewritten in Jan 2018.

 

_“_ _...and maybe we have to break everything to make something better out of ourselves.”_

_―_ _Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club_

 

Thorin trailed a hand along the wall as he strode down the empty halls of Erebor. His torch cast strange shadows on the stone cladding, and the bas-reliefs shivered and danced as he passed. He shook his head as he caught himself counting the empty sconces on the walls. Already he was estimating how many torches he would need to make just this one corridor come alive once more.

Thorin went down a stair and turned right, then left. His footsteps echoed off the stone. Swallowing thickly, he pushed down a door handle and entered his grandfather’s chambers.

The room was sad and abandoned, phantom scents and memories lingering in the dark corners. Thorin passed his hand over the familiar furniture, the turned finials of a chair, the malachite inlay of a desk. It felt sacrilegious to enter these chambers, though they were his by all rights now.

He set the torch in a wall sconce and crouched by the heavy chest at Thror’s bedside. There was a complicated lock on the lid. Thorin smiled wryly. All important dwarf rooms had a secret door, all important dwarf doors had a secret lock, and all important dwarf locks had a secret release. You just had to know where to look.

Thorin bent closer and felt the edge of the ornate keyhole plate. On the right side, there was a small irregularity. Pulling out a sliver of metal revealed a tiny gap between the lock and the lid. The dwarf reached to his belt and unsheathed the slim dagger he had confiscated from Hawke. The narrow tip fit easily into the gap, and after a few careful movements, there came a click. Thorin sighed. At times like this, it terrified him to think about all the knowledge that Durin's Folk stood to lose, should his quest fail. Few still remembered the secrets of the royal line.

Casting his eyes around the room, Thorin picked up a stone inkpot, positioned the knife just so and slammed the inkpot against the handle, efficiently breaking the lock apart. Had he done it before releasing the safety latch, the lock would have either withstood the impact, or simply jammed, and then nothing short of massive force and fire would ever open it again.

Kneeling on the floor, he removed the broken cylinder and pushed up the heavy lid of the chest. There, on top of a folded gold cloth lay the original raven crown of Erebor.

Suddenly, Thorin’s hands were shaking.

The crown was as old as the kingdom, fashioned and worn by the first King under the Mountain almost eight hundred years ago. His grandfather, after returning from the Grey Mountains and re-establishing the Durin’s Folk capital under the Lonely Mountain, had made himself a new crown, of identic design but unblemished by time.

The dwarf reverently picked up the heirloom and ran his fingers over the light scratches on the onyx wings of the ravens, the small dents in the gold framing. He didn’t see them as defects. He saw them as the story of his people — the foundation of Erebor, the years they had ruled from the Grey Mountains, the war of the Dwarves and Dragons, the death of his great grandfather Dain and the return of Thror to Erebor.

Now his grandfather’s crown was half a world away in his sister’s chest back in the Blue Mountains, and there was an army of elves milling at the gate and demanding Thorin spoke with their king. Another army was approaching from the northwest, and despite his reassurances to the hobbit and later to Fili and everyone else, he knew he was likely to die in that battle.

Thorin turned the crown in his hands, remembering with bitterness all the empty promises of the other houses, Thranduil’s breaking of the alliance and the later imprisonment of the Company. All his life he had been denied and rejected, a crownless king, stubbornly seeking to preserve the legacy of his people. Battered and weary, yet stubbornly persevering through the bad times, the old crown probably suited him better than anything faultless and perfect.

Taking a deep breath, Thorin put the crown on his head. Then he shut the chest, grabbed the torch from its sconce and left the room, a new-found determination in his step.

Thranduil wanted to talk? Fine. He will talk.

 

***

“I’m not sure cleaning was part of my contract,” Bilbo mused, leaning on a broom and casting a glance at the remaining dust bunnies under the council table. “But it is calming. Reminds me of home.”

Hawke wrung out the rag and got back on her knees to continue scrubbing the floor. She smirked, remembering her own Hightown mansion and family crest. Oh, the ups and downs of her family fortunes!

“You’ll go back there when this is over? Return to your Bag End?” she asked.

The hobbit shrugged.

“I don’t have much confidence that any of us will be able to return anywhere, Miss Hawke.”

The mage sat on her heels and glanced up at the hobbit. “You could leave I guess. You have done your job. They can’t hold it against you if you decide to avoid the coming battle.”

Bilbo stilled, a frown on his face. It seemed that he had never actually considered it an option.

Before Bilbo could say anything, however, there was a commotion in the corridor, and soon enough the whole company of dwarves spilled into the room. There was a strange tension in the air as they argued in halftones, the harsh, barking tones of Khuzdul accompanied with angry gestures of their sign language. Thorin was not among them.

Hawke frowned as she slowly got up, the wet rag forgotten on the floor. Bilbo sidled up to her.

“They... were burying the dead from the western guardroom, right?”

The mage nodded. “Yeah, the secret ceremony where traitors and maleficars don’t get invited.”

“So what do you think went wrong?”

“Damned if I know. What _can_ go wrong at a burial?”

Nori showed up on Bilbo’s other side, his hand nervously tugging at his braided beard. “See for yourselves,” he muttered. “Thorin Oakenshield sure has a nerve…”

Hawke looked up the moment Thorin strode into the room, and found herself gaping, unable to tear her eyes from the dark-haired dwarf.

He had taken up the crown of Erebor.

Bilbo cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his chest, hands pulled in fists, as the others turned towards their king, fidgeting and muttering in low voices among themselves.

“Alright, now let’s put your grievances on the table,” Thorin snapped. He glanced at the floor as he circled the room and nodded curtly at Hawke and Bilbo. “What’s this displeasure on your faces now?”

“You… took the ancient crown, Thorin….” Gloin mumbled, casting an anxious look at his elder brother. Arms crossed, Oin was staring at his boots.

“Gloin said it,” Dori supported the red-headed warrior. “It’s not that we object to your claim, it’s just that…”

Balin sighed. A note of defeat was following him ever since his last argument with Thorin.

“You can’t simply take the raven crown, Thorin,” the white-haired dwarf said. “You have to be crowned, and there’s ceremony and tradition to take into account. You can’t just…”

Thorin leaned on the table, shoulders hunched under his new black fur coat and the ornate armour.

“Today we returned to the stone our brothers and sisters that hadn’t been so fortunate to escape when Smaug attacked,” he explained in a tight voice. “I’d think they deserve all the honour we can give them. Don’t you?”

Oin and Gloin didn’t seem convinced as they exchanged a glance, and Fili, too, was standing to the side, arms crossed and staring at the floor.

Thorin took a deep breath and continued. “In one hour I am meeting with Thranduil to try and negotiate a new alliance. Tomorrow morning, Kili and Dwalin should return with news of how far the orcs are from Erebor. We also have no solution yet how to get Laketown on our side. So if you think, my friends, that this is a time for ceremony, I commend your optimism.”

Bifur growled and made a step forward, gesturing sharply at Thorin and the table.

“Aye, exactly,” Thorin nodded. “I need to talk to him as a king to a king.”

He looked around the room, holding everyone’s gaze until they looked away or shrugged. Hawke watched as she felt the tension turn down to a low simmer. She wondered how long Thorin would manage to hold his company’s obedience if he continued to push them like this. If she understood correctly, until now — or at least lately, during the quest — he’d been the first among equals, a leader of a company. Now he’d taken up the mantle of the King. Of course, there was going to be friction.

Thorin nodded to himself.

“Then I consider the matter closed,” he said. “Bifur, you go to the ledge outside the western guardroom and pull up the flag of Durin to let Kili and Dwalin know that the door has been unblocked. You’ll find the flag in the chest to the right from the entrance. Bofur, Nori, Oin and Gloin, you finish cleaning the floor here. Ori and Dori — check the chairs and if needed, find others. Bilbo and Hawke, you come with me.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow, and then followed the hobbit.

 

 

Walking behind Thorin down stairs and dark corridors, Hawke mused on dwarves, and their penchant for vast underground halls. After the Deep Roads, she had wanted to never step foot underground again. But life had had other plans, and there were always some bandits hiding in secret tunnels, there was Anders and his clinic in the Hightown sewers, there were… ingredients… that needed gathering in old mining tunnels…

Bloody tunnels. Where was Thorin leading them? How did he find his way underground? Stone sense, was it? Did it work in Middle earth? Did the local dwarves retain it even after long years spent on the surface?

Well, in this world, the dwarves did seem different, she thought. Prouder. Braver. Even more stubborn. Instead of thugs, they were warriors. Instead of smuggling, spying and bets, there were crazy quests against dragons lying half a world away.

In this world, there was a dwarf who had the guts to take the crown of his ancestors and try and turn things around for his whole people, without any regard for his life. It sounded unreal, like an epic fairy tale. In Kirkwall, people survived. They didn’t do brave, selfless things. And as weird as it felt, Hawke found she was glad there actually existed visionaries like that — people fighting for the future and the rights of their people.

The mage’s steps slowed down as she shook her head, a deep frown settling on her face. An impossible connection was suddenly taking shape.

The manifesto. The mage underground. The chantry.

“Whoa.” Hawke had to lean on the wall as the corridor briefly swam out of focus.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” she muttered. “He was mad and dangerous, and I failed to stop him in time. Thorin is… is nothing like…”

She shook her head again.

“Miss Hawke? Is everything alright?” Further down the corridor, Bilbo had turned around, a worried look on his face.

“Hawke? We don’t have all day.” Thorin too had turned.

The mage swallowed thickly. She stared at him, at his clear blue eyes made darker by the flickering flame of the torch. His dark beard and hair. The black fur on his shoulders and the raven crown weighing down on his brow. The differences in looks and bearing had misled her, but she had known somebody else like him, a revolutionary ready to lay down his life for a cause.

Suddenly, Hawke saw with perfect clarity how thin the line was between a visionary and a madman.

“Yeah, coming,” she choked out as she started walking again. Thorin nodded and turned down the corridor. Bilbo wordlessly fell in step next to Hawke. The hobbit. Thorin’s friend and betrayer. Hawke’s chest felt tight, and she wanted to throw up.

If Thorin succeeded, he’d be dubbed a champion, Hawke realized. If not, he’d be remembered as nothing more than a prideful, goldsick fool that bit off more than he could chew. Bilbo’s treachery would have been the dagger in his back, a plea for some half-arsed compromise that would have achieved nothing.

She had seen it before in Thorin’s eyes full of drunken regret, and in the battle that followed Meredith’s invocation of the Right of Annulment.

So many had died.

The parallels were gut-wrenching. The king and the rogue. The leader and the madman. Was Thorin truly mad? Or had Anders been right in his fight for mage freedom? Was she being blinded by her overconfidence? Or should she have agreed that there were no half-measures possible anymore?

Descending a long flight of stairs, they had returned to the vast treasury once more. This time, Hawke studied it as suspiciously as the hobbit. What if it really was cursed?

Thorin paused, looking at the mountains of gold, then pulled back his shoulders and walked over to an ornate chest sitting in a niche near the wall. He pulled out a beautiful chainmail shirt, glimmering white in the light of the torches.

“Come here, Bilbo.”

The hobbit huffed in annoyance.

“Thorin, what would I do with…”

“Impress the elf and survive the battle,” Thorin cut him off. “I’m… Just take it, burglar. As a sign of gratitude.”

Suddenly red in the face, Bilbo narrowed his eyes at the dwarf.

“Was that an apology, Thorin? For all that cursing, shouting, manhandling and threats to strangle me or throw me off the wall? Because I didn’t hear an apology there.”

Thorin clenched his jaw and flashed an angry glance at the hobbit, grumbling something under his nose. Hawke chuckled, and some of the heaviness lifted from her shoulders.

“Alright, I shouldn’t have!” Thorin huffed. He thrust the chainmail into Bilbo’s hands. “Now put this on. I don’t trust the Elvenking to keep one promise that passes his lips, so do try to not get yourself killed if the meeting goes wrong.”

Bilbo shook his head in disbelief. “Honestly, Thorin. ‘Sorry’ would have been enough.”

Thorin pursed his lips. Sighing, Bilbo took the shirt and turned to go, shuffling his feet over the jingling coins and muttering under his nose.

Hawke watched him leave.

“Marian.”

The mage turned around and froze, taking in the sight of her staff in Thorin’s outstretched hand. She reached out her hand, caressing the polished wood. Her magic swelled in her chest, pushing the heavy thoughts aside.

“You…” She fought the lump in her throat. “You trust me now?”

The dwarf measured her with a careful glance. “Somewhat.”

Hawke took the staff from the dwarf’s hand and clutched it to her chest.

“About Balin back there, it’s… I’m still a mage without a staff,” she said, trying to explain. “It’s just… not healthy. Magic sort of…” she gestured vaguely. “Accumulates. And without a staff it will still break out in some way, like a dammed river.”

Thorin nodded.

“So tell me – what magic do you have?”

 

***

The first thing Tauriel noticed when she scampered out of her tent, spurred on by the distraught shouts of her company, was the dark storm front rolling in from the north. Then she saw two riders approaching her small outpost at a break-neck speed, drawing closer and closer as the swampy terrain led them straight to her camp.

_“Aim!”_ Tauriel yelled to her handful of Mirkwood guards. _“But shoot only on command!”_

The Captain ran to the front of her camp, flicking out her bow and narrowing her eyes to make out the distant silhouets. It could be the two dwarves she had been sent to look out for. It could be Kili.

_“They’re being followed,”_ one of her archers noted. Tauriel swore.

_“By who?”_

The elves squinted at the horizon where the frosted grass melted with the stormy sky.

_“Are those…?”_

_“By the stars, are those wargs?”_

_“What are wargs doing here?!”_

_“Change aim!”_ Tauriel commanded, hands clammy and heart beating wildly in her chest. _“Shoot when you can, and don’t hit the dwarves!”_

She could now make out a pack of some twelve to fifteen beasts, each carrying a rider and driving the dwarves straight into her camp. An overflown creek was forming a wetland to the both sides and the back, making a quick retreat completely impossible. Tauriel clenched her teeth and cursed her lack of foresight. When choosing the campsite, she had never imagined she would have to _defend_ it from the empty north — she had been looking out for two dwarves, not orcs! How could there be orcs coming from there, what were they doing in these lands?!

The clear sound of Sindarin ringing over the plain distracted Kili from what was going on behind him, and, brushing his hair out of his face, he looked more carefully ahead of him. The view made his eyes widen in alarm.

_“We’re trapped in the damn bog!”_ Dwalin shouted, apparently coming to the same conclusion. The horses continued their mad race, spurred on by the howls and the occasional arrow that flew over their heads. Dwalin’s mare was foaming from the mouth, and Kili’s horse didn’t fare much better. Then he noticed the low-pitched green and brown tents in front of him, and some four or five figures standing their ground, bows pulled back and ready to fire.

And he knew the elf standing in the middle, knew that brilliant hair and slender figure, knew her voice and her deadly aim. Surely she recognized him and Dwalin?

_“Dago i orch! Dago i draug!”_

“Tauriel!”

A volley of arrows flew over their heads, and Dwalin cursed and jerked his horse aside. Kili turned into the opposite direction, galloping past the elves and circling the tents, then coming up to the front again.

_“There’s no way out!”_ Dwalin shouted in his native Khuzdul. _“Why is there no way out?”_

Tauriel shot them a wide-eyed glance and ordered another volley, just as Dwalin harshly pulled on the reins, making his horse rear in protest. Kili turned his bay in a circle, cursing his lack of a bow and the festering bogs of the cursed plains. The elves had taken out two of the riders, but the odds were still one to four, and they were in a stupid location with little space for movement, and no escape.

Then the orcs managed to hit one of the archers.

_“They’ll just butcher us here!”_ Kili shouted.

_“We must try and cross that creek, then we might have a chance,”_ Dwalin called back, and Kili stood up in the stirrups to see where he was pointing. The older dwarf was right, assuming they managed to make it to the waterfront. Kili nodded and cast a glance at the elven archers forming a thin line between the dwarves and the orcs.

_“Take the injured one and go!”_ he ordered.

_“Are you out of your mind? We’ll barely make it on our own!”_ Dwalin was turning his horse in circles, impatient to take the chance.

The orcs were approaching fast, and a melee was going to break out in seconds, while Tauriel took out another rider. Kili turned his bay around, braced himself against the stirrups and pulled the injured archer up in front of him.

The elf gasped, swaying in the saddle and clutching at his bleeding shoulder. One of his companions noticed what was happening and yelled, but he couldn’t turn away from the enemy right in front of him. Dwalin shouted something that got lost in the din and the howls, as Kili slipped from the saddle and threw the reins to his companion.

_“Get your maps to Thorin! Go!”_

_“I’m not leaving without you!”_

_“And I’m not leaving here, so GET OUT!”_

_“I swore to your mother I’d protect you, you fool!”_

_“You swore to Thorin to deliver the maps! So take the archer and get back to your King!”_

_“I can’t-”_

“ _It was not a request, Dwalin, son of Fundin!”_

The warrior cursed, sat up straighter in the saddle and cast a murderous glance at the prince.

_“Then Mahal’s hammer shield you, laddie,”_ he barked. Pulling on the reins of Kili’s bay, he turned around and spurred on his mare. Clumps of moss flew up in the air as the long legs of the horses carried them over the treacherous ground, splashing into the stream and then swimming across it.

Feeling the comforting weight of the ancient sword in his hands, Kili took the missing archer’s place at Tauriel’s left. The redhead glanced at him, eyes wide in her pale, drawn face.

“One to five,” she said. “You’re a fool, Kili of Blue Mountains.”

“This is dwarven steel,” Kili snarled. “We will stand, _amabel_.”

 

 

Tauriel wasn’t familiar with dwarven smithing, but when the first warg that encountered Kili’s blade fell upon the first blow, leaving a broken howl and two of its legs behind, she had to admit that for a moment, she was morbidly curious.

_"Back! Close ranks!”_ she ordered as she cut down the rider. Like that night in Mirkwood, or later at the shores of the Long Lake, Kili moved instinctively, guessing her intent without any need to understand her Sindarin commands.

Together, they fought off another warg, and soon enough, Tauriel lost herself in the deadly craft she had been perfecting for centuries. Her body was moving on its own, her mind taking split-second decisions as she took notice of the positions of her guards and Kili, and ripped apart anyone who tried to attack from behind or gang up on her people.

Precise, sharp stabs and cuts; a crouch, a step back; a tumble. There was an intoxicating taste of life in dealing out death, a grim satisfaction in feeling spatters of hot blood on her face and her daggers cutting through the foul beasts like butter.

She barely noticed with the corner of an eye as another, the youngest of her archers fell, shoulder smashed by a crude mace and her arm almost ripped off. The girl’s screams died under the growls and snarls of the beasts, and then her father looked his Captain dead in the eye and left her side, attacking the group of wargs, taking some down and then following his girl to the Undying Lands.

Kili was nowhere to be seen. A wild cry broke out from Tauriel’s chest, and then the last remaining guard of her company was cut down, his golden hair painted crimson and splayed out on the mud, a perfect image of cruelty and heartbreak.

She called out to Kili again, but her voice was lost in the noise and chaos. She was surrounded.

Tauriel knew she was screaming, as she threw herself at the enemy, her whole body, her heart and spirit turned into a double-edged sword. She didn’t want to die, not without making sure that Kili had escaped the bloodbath, but if that was the will of the Valar, then she was going to take down with her as many orcs and wargs as she could.

Another rider fell from her blades, and one who was already injured even stepped back from the snarling elf, letting two others take his place and test their luck.

Then something slammed into her, grabbed her by the waist in a punishing grip and pulled her backwards over the swampy terrain. 

_“Let me go, LET ME GO!”_ she screamed. Thinking it was some orc’s sick joke on her, she raised her blades to deliver a deadly blow, stopped short when she finally noticed the leather vambrace and the rusty chainmail. “KILI!”

The dwarf flashed her an exasperated glance but wouldn’t budge as he continued to drag her backwards. Ground disappeared from under her feet as she sunk knee-deep in a mucky pool; Kili, himself constantly fighting the soft ground, yanked her out, and then they were in the water, just as one of the wargs paused to sniff the air and then let out a chilling howl. Black smoke was rising up in the air, trapping the foul creatures on the swampy peninsula, and soon the first flame could be seen swallowing one of the tents and then catching on to a warg’s fur and the dirty rags of its rider.

 

 

Kili was panting for breath as he dragged Tauriel up on somewhat solid ground on the other side of the stream. Black spots were dancing in front of his eyes, and he was vaguely grateful that the elf had stopped fighting him before they’d both drowned. For all her slim looks and effortless movements…

Kili’s hands were shaking as he tried to rise himself from the muddy ground, painfully aware of the possibility that wargs _could_ swim, and that Tauriel could be hurt, or that they could’ve lost all their weapons somewhere in the stream.

That’s when she whacked him soundly on the head.

“You _fool_! Why did you have to… You could’ve… Why, Kili? Why me?!”

Kili stared at the elf. Her green clothes were torn and muddied, her once shiny hair a tangled, dirty mess dripping down her back and shoulders, and still she sat there on the ground, demanding her answers. Kili closed his eyes and willed the black spots away. What could he say? He couldn’t believe he had pulled it off in the first place.

“ _Ghivash_ ,” he started, still fighting to regain his breath. “From the morning I’ve had… ‘Praise Mahal we’re alive’ is about the only thought I have… in that empty head of mine…”

“That and ‘Dwalin’s gonna be pissed’…” he added in a murmur as the possible consequences of his actions finally started to catch up to him.

Tauriel brushed her wet hair away from her face and took a deep breath as she glanced over the water. The whole campsite was on fire. She couldn’t see any orcs or wargs moving there anymore.

They could’ve died there. _Kili_ could’ve died there, because in his… stubbornness…  Or was it foolishness… Loyalty and bravery, and recklessness…

Tauriel swallowed a lump in her throat. Six hundred and twenty-four years under the stars, and what blessings could she account for? What achievements, what victories, past the empty sound of the Captain’s title? What use was that title when people followed their hearts, when music and friendly teasing was what they remembered when all was said and done, when it was their children and loved ones that they followed into the West?

Her company was dead, and her King had probably played her again, the woodland elf who fought well. But then, somewhere along the way, a cheeky dwarven archer had chosen to die by her side, and it was for him that Tauriel had fought _best_.

The elf slowly stood up and glanced down at Kili as he squeezed out some water from his hair and started to get up too.

Wordlessly, Tauriel picked up their weapons and passed Kili his sword. The dwarf sighed, noticing a notch on the blade, then thought for a moment and sheathed it. Tauriel meanwhile tore a thin strip from the bottom of her overdress.

She stopped Kili by the shoulder when he turned to go.

“Wait.”

The dwarf glanced up at her, a silent question mixed with weariness and warm concern in his eyes.

“Your vest.”

“What about it?”

With nimble fingers, Tauriel reached down and quickly looped the green strip through the eyelets of Kili’s wool and leather gambeson he wore under the mail. The dwarf went completely still as she worked, and she found she couldn’t look him in the face. She laced up the vest and tied a simple knot at his throat.

“There. You’ll be warmer.” Praying she hadn’t gone red to the tips of her ears, she flicked some stray locks of hair from under his collar and turned to go, only to feel Kili’s hand wrapping around her wrist, stopping her. She glanced down at the dwarf, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking up in the sky, a wide grin on his face.

“It’s snowing, _amabel._ ”

Incredulous, Tauriel looked up, and there it was, a million tiny snowflakes swirling down on the grasslands, an avalanche that weighed nothing, a white sheet to cover their footprints and put the world to sleep. Tauriel smiled, feeling something heavy and ugly released from her chest.

Kili laughed, and then he winked at her and started going.

“We’ve got a long way ahead of us!” he called. “You think we can make it to your main rear guard camp before we’re frozen solid?”

Tauriel chuckled as she turned up her collar and swept her wet, useless hair over her back.

“We should try. No use trying to make fire in such weather.”

“So yes, we have a long way to go, Kili.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil wants his white gems. Thorin doesn't want to give the gems. Dwalin returns. Thorin doesn't handle stress well, or has gone mad, depending on who you ask. Hawke tries talking instead of blood magic.  
> Tauriel wants to discuss racial differences. Kili wants to discuss the end of Chapter 13. And then they're done talking for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ok, I can't plan chapters for the life of me, so here's a very very long one that just didn't want to get wrapped up, or split in two. But I like it. Seriously, though, it starts to feel a bit lonely here lately, so some feedback/concrit would be really really nice.
> 
> A huge thank you goes to iscatterthemintimeandspace for beta reading, encouraging, inspiring and keeping me writing!
> 
> Also, please note: for this chapter, the rating goes up to M.
> 
> Enjoy ^^

 

* * *

 

_Glory to the courageous who dare to love, knowing it will all come to an end. Glory to the insane who live out their lives as if they’re immortal — sometimes, the death does step away from them._

— A Commonplace Miracle

 

 

 ***

Smaug the Golden truly was dead.

Thranduil stared at the carcass of the monster lying just inside the gate. He _had_ considered this as one of the possibilities of Thorin Oakenshield’s mad endeavour, but to see it come true against all odds, to see the huge dragon defeated and his fire extinguished forever... Who exactly was this Hawke that Tauriel had told him about? Had she done this on her own? What foul magic had been at play here? Thranduil glanced at the wizard by his side, and saw that Gandalf was frowning too, hands itching to inspect the dead monster closer.

“Your majesty, if you please.” The white-haired dwarf that had received them at the gate was beckoning them to follow.

With one last look at the dragon, the elf went deeper into the Mountain, followed by his son, Gandalf and no more than a handful of guards, as requested. Thranduil remembered the old dwarf as King Thror’s steward and counsellor. A group of six other dwarves flanked him, and for a moment Thranduil wondered if he had been in the throne room when the King under the Mountain had denied his claim on the white jewels of Doriath. If he had seen the beginnings of the greed that destroyed the dwarven kingdom.

For a moment, Thranduil was also wondering if, considering the magic that had killed the dragon, it had been wise to insist on negotiating with the new self-styled King, and to do so in his own mountain no less. Suddenly, he felt unsure, and that was something that the Elvenking hadn’t experienced in a very long time indeed.

He had to mask his surprise when the dwarf turned down a different corridor and led them away from where the throne room had been.

“Hmm. The old meeting room?” the wizard muttered at his side.

“Aye, Master Gandalf,” Balin confirmed stiffly. “The King believed that a round table would be more conducive to what needs to be said.”

Thranduil raised an eyebrow, noting the dwarf’s wording. He had been the one to demand the meeting. Now it appeared that Thorin Oakenshield had something to say as well, and he wanted to say it on level ground, not glaring down from his broken throne. Oh well. A wide round table might make it easier to avoid the dwarf’s spit, should he start cursing at him again…

 

***

The _zargun_ flashed bright blue in his hand as Thorin played with it, thumbing off the facets and turning it idly in his hand. The stone had a light green tinge to it, like the back of a kingfisher. The men called it zircon.

Fili stood to the right behind Thorin’s chair, with Hawke to the left, and watched his uncle’s hand, his own clenched in fists at his sides.

His uncle had changed. There was a strange tightness in his eyes, a stiffness in his bearing. He was wound up tight as a spring, and there was a brittle edge to his words and gestures that hadn't been there before. And his eyes always strayed towards the treasury, his pockets weighed down with precious stones and coins.

Fili tried to understand, he honestly did. But he also wanted to live, and right now his brother had been sent off on a dangerous mission, two armies were advancing on their newly reclaimed home, and Fili had no confidence whatsoever that Thorin wouldn’t succumb to his pride, dooming them all. And what if the gold really was cursed, like Balin and Bilbo said? What if the gold sickness was real, and he was losing his uncle to it?

He had tried to talk to Thorin before the meeting, one last attempt to convince him not to let past grudges determine their future. Thorin had thrown his worry right back in his face.

Fili hadn’t expected to see anybody else with Thorin as he’d stood in the corridor waiting. The dark-haired wizard with her staff proudly strapped on her back, and the hobbit with a mithril coat sparkling softly beneath his worn jacket, had caught him completely off guard.

_“Why’d you give her that?” he sputtered. “You saw her almost lash out at Balin the other day!”_

_Thorin, followed by Bilbo and Hawke, stopped in front of him. “But she didn’t. What are you doing here, Fili?”_

_The prince looked from the wizard to the hobbit, then to his uncle again. “So you trust Hawke now?”_

_The woman huffed and rolled her eyes. Thorin cast her a warning glance over the shoulder and curtly nodded at Fili. “I trust her enough. So what are you doing here?”_

_Fili couldn’t help scowling at her. He thought it suspicious how quickly the woman seemed to have wormed her way into Thorin’s trust, especially after what Bilbo had — almost — done._

_“I just wanted to…” Fili trailed off again, as his eye was now caught by the silvery gleam at Bilbo’s collar. “Thorin, is that…”_

_Bilbo frowned at him, glancing down his own chest._

_“What what is, Fili? This chainmail?” the hobbit wondered._

_“Yes,” Thorin snapped. “Yes, it is, so now answer my question, or stop wasting my time!”_

_Fili felt his hands draw into fists again. He was giving Hawke her staff back, he was giving a priceless mithril shirt to Bilbo but refusing to share the gold with the elves? To even negotiate with them the possibility of maybe parting with some of that treasure, if it meant getting their help?_

_“What’s going on, uncle?” he asked aloud. “I don’t understand, because you don’t talk to me anymore. You have grown cold and hard, you explode at the smallest provocation, you yell at Balin and then take the crown without any ceremony. You think about nothing but that cursed gold!”_

_Thorin narrowed his eyes at him, even as Bilbo pursed his lips and gave an agreeing shrug._

_“You did give a promise, Thorin,” he said. “Back in Laketown. Whatever you decide about our own shares, you promised to spread the wealth.”_

_The dark-haired dwarf laughed harshly._

_“So, dear nephew,” he spread his hands, ignoring the hobbit, and bent his head to the side, “you decided to confront me about my behaviour. To get your answers.”_

_Fili refused to feel hurt at his uncle’s tone. “I’m worried,” he retorted angrily. “We all are.”_

_The king raised his chin. “If a war is to come, so be it. I didn’t know your mother and I raised you a coward.”_

_“I’m not a coward!” the prince protested. “What I’m saying is that there’s an opportunity to improve our chances in that war, and you’re determined to ignore it, because of your prejudice against elves! There’s a difference between cowardice and seeing things for how they are! And it seems that you don’t!”_

_Thorin remained calm even as his gaze grew even harder than before._

_“Mind your tongue, boy. I know what I’m doing, but I am not answerable to you — nor anyone else.”_

_With that, Thorin had turned and stalked away, his coat billowing behind him. Fili felt as if he’d been slapped. He’d looked up at the wizard, as she opened her mouth to say something, but then she had glanced at his uncle and hastened after him down the corridor, leaving him with an equally hurt and irritated Bilbo._

Now Fili stared at the bright blue stone in Thorin’s hand and thought about the clear blue lakes of his homeland. He thought about Kili, and Mother, and Feya, and he didn’t understand — how could Thorin weigh some gold against the lives of his own kin. He simply could not understand it.

 

***

One of the steward’s company pushed open a heavy wooden door, and the procession strode inside, fanning along the walls of the chamber. Thranduil quickly took in the new king in his crown and the Laketown’s bargeman sitting at the table while everyone else stood. There was a hobbit and one of the younger dwarves, fair-haired and scowling, standing behind the king’s back. There was also a tall woman in strange armour, holding what looked like a glaive. A curious choice of weapon, Thranduil mused.

Gandalf chuckled, bending his head in a greeting.

“Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain! To be honest, I hadn’t expected to greet you in your ancestral home so soon.”

The dwarf king measured the wizard with a cool glance. “And I hadn’t expected to see you at all, Gandalf. Especially not in such company.” He turned to the Elvenking and gestured for him to sit.

“Take a seat, Thranduil. I’m afraid I don’t have a hundred years to hear you speak your mind.”

The elf raised his chin as he cast a surreptitious glance around the room. He felt something wretched here, the same dark magic that had clung to Smaug’s dead body. Hiding his unease again, he drew back the rickety chair and sat down as gracefully as he could, long limbs in disagreement with the dwarven furniture. Legolas and Gandalf remained standing behind him, mirroring the King under the Mountain.

“True,” the elf agreed, smiling tightly at the dwarf and the bargeman. “I see that, in the interests of not losing any time, you have also decided to consult a professional, before sending your new merchandise down the River Running.”

“The gold of Erebor has never been our merchandise, Thranduil,” the dwarf sneered in response. “And this man is not my bargeman. Bard is the heir of Girion, and, Mahal willing, the future Lord of Dale.”

Bard flashed a small smile at the elf and then looked down at the table again. Thranduil reclined in his chair, fingers tracing idle patterns on the inlaid surface of the table.

“We shall see,” he drawled. He didn’t care much about who ruled in Dale, as long as it wasn’t yet another stubborn, self-centered dwarf. “Now why don’t we start with why I came here, King Thorin?”

Thorin bared his teeth at him. “You want to talk about that time you betrayed our alliance, or that other time when you imprisoned us and stole our weapons, King Thranduil?”

“The time _your_ people stole the treasury of Doriath,” the elf sneered back. “The time your grandfather promised to return the white gems to me, only to succumb to his avarice and short-sightedness!”

“Those gems belong to the Durin’s Folk by all rights! Thingol refused to pay my kin for the work they’d done, so the gems were fairly earned!”

“No one, at any point, had said you could demand the Nauglamir as your payment! And with the last of the Silmarils set in it no less!”

“What we asked had _exactly_ the value of the work that we did for you, shaping and forging your treasure into jewelry!”

Gandalf loudly cleared his throat.

“Forgive my impertinence,” he interrupted, “but may I remind you that this happened in the _First Age_?”

The dark haired woman rolled her eyes. Bard nodded and nervously drummed his fingers on the table. “Exactly. What we need to discuss today is…”

“The orc army marching from Mount Gundabad,” Thorin interrupted him. Bard glared at the dwarf. Thranduil raised an eyebrow. So even despite his greed, the fool wanted to show it was his good will and not the Lakeman’s? What was he playing at?

“What are you talking about, Oakenshield?” he drawled.

The dwarf leaned forward, ringed hands splayed on the table. His eyes were flashing under the onyx and gold crown. “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about, Thranduil.”

Gandalf turned to the Elvenking, surprise plainly evident on his weary face. Legolas was bristling as he glared at the dwarf, readying himself for a possible fight. Thranduil signed his son to calm down.

“Thranduil?” Gandalf prompted.

“I suspected,” the elf admitted nonchalantly. “I didn’t exactly bring my army here to argue over my white gems with you, Thorin.”

“You mean _my_ white gems.”

“Thorin!” Gandalf shot him an irritated glance from under the brim of his hat.

The dwarf king leaned back in his chair.

“Tell me,” he said, “what did you bring that army here for?”

Thranduil inwardly cursed as he slowly blinked at the dwarf. In Mirkwood, Thorin had been much more emotional and careless with his words. Now, however, the Elvenking found himself in a bit of a tight spot. How could he explain that a mere woodland elf had managed to convince him to look beyond the borders of the forest, to listen to his own inner voice, that was now frantically looking for words to explain his actions?

If he admitted that he had come to reclaim the jewels, expecting the dwarves to have opened the hidden door and then perished in flames, the negotiations would come to a dead end. If he said he had intended to kill Smaug himself… Well, he would still be accused of only doing it because he wanted the dwarven treasure. And if he said he had come to fight the approaching army, not actually expecting any help from his neighbours, then he was not going to get anything out of this new situation where both the Mountain _and_ Dale seemed to have gained new masters.

That was when the heavy double door crashed open, revealing a large, bald dwarf who was panting heavily, his eyes darting around the room, until they settled on his king.

“THORIN! Kili, he…”

The dwarf shot up from his seat and deftly caught his blond guardsman by the sleeve, before he could dash over to the newcomer.

“What about him, where is he?!” the blond demanded.

“ _Shazara!_ ” Thorin slammed his fist on the table, and although Thranduil could guess the meaning behind the word, the rest of the conversation he couldn’t follow anymore.

Thorin had kicked over his chair and rushed to his friend, dropping on one knee in front of him. Fili had followed him instantaneously, while Hawke with some other dwarves quickly formed a line holding back the concerned and the curious that had nothing to do with the line of Durin.

“ _What happened?_ ” Thorin asked, fighting the dread that was overwhelming his senses like a forest fire.

Dwalin fell on his knees and hit his forehead on the stone tiles, the deepest confession of guilt known to the dwarves. Behind him, Bifur appeared in the doorway, a pale, injured elven archer leaning on his shoulder. Thranduil’s company immediately surrounded them, taking over and inspecting the wound.

“ _We ran into some orc scouts_ , _who then chased us, driving us into an elven camp on the plains,”_ the warrior wailed, clutching at his remaining hair and beard. “ _We were trapped, and then… and then…_ ”

“ _Where is he? Where is my nephew, Dwalin?_ ” Thorin asked, his voice catching.

Fili, pale faced and shocked, barely caught the larger dwarf by the shoulder as he apparently tried to bash his brain out on the floor. Sitting on the floor, he hugged him tightly to prevent any further self-harm, and suddenly Dwalin broke out in tears.

“ _I left him, Thorin,_ ” he sobbed. “ _He told me, he ORDERED me to return here and give you the maps that we drew, and, oh Mahal, Thorin, I am so sorry… I am so sorry, Thorin…_ ”

Thorin hung his head as his whole world was grinding to a halt. He couldn’t bear looking into Fili’s terrified blue eyes as the reality of the situation sank in.

“I told him to never come between me and the Mountain…” he murmured. “Before letting him come on the quest, I told him to never make me choose…”

Oh Mahal. His dear, reckless Kili with his easy smiles and bluffing, with his arrows and his tanning tools, and the deer he had once dragged home from the forest, and the traps Thorin had fallen in more times than he could count until he’d learned to navigate the only safe path to his own home. 

“Thorin,” someone was calling him out from his daze.

Mahal, how could this happen...

“Hey... Boss! _"_

When he finally looked up, there was Hawke crouching in front of him, concern mixed with confusion in her clear blue eyes.

“Breathe,” she said simply.

Thorin tried, and having to do that, to pull himself together and get up from the floor, hurt like nothing he had ever felt.

Glancing around, he saw his whole company gathered around, blocking them from the elves’ view. It appeared the elves were more busy with their own archer; only Thranduil’s cold stare could be felt every now and then from across the room. Balin was on the floor too, awkwardly patting his large brother’s shoulder as he was wrecking with sobs and spewing out curses at his own stupidity and worthlessness.

Thorin grabbed his heir by the collar and pulled him up too. Fili was shaking his head, face streaked with tears.

“I can’t believe it, Uncle,” he said. “He must be alive. He must. He’s a survivor, my brother...”

“What happened?” Hawke asked, coming closer to avoid being overheard. Thorin felt his fingers curl into the blond’s clothing, as he debated how to tell the wizard about this new blow of fate. Westron was escaping him, and there were no other words she would understand. Glancing around, he saw that with the elves’ attention distracted, the other dwarves had now huddled together, muttering among themselves, shaking their heads and casting him unbelieving and expectant glances. A deeply distraught Bofur seemed to be explaining to Bilbo and Bard what had happened.

“I have to go and find him,” Fili muttered dazedly, trying to free himself from Thorin’s grasp. “I have to know… And if he’s alive, he needs to be brought here as soon as possible…”

Thorin shook the blond.

“You’re not going anywhere, Fili,” he stated, trying to catch his eye even as his own heart was breaking. “You hear me? You stay right here and do as I say.”

Suddenly Gandalf’s tall figure loomed over them.

“Thorin? And… you must be Hawke, I assume?”

His wizard measured Gandalf with a careful glance, her hand wrapping more tightly around her staff.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “And you are…?”

The grey-haired wizard gave her a thin smile. “I’m Gandalf,” he said. “Mithrandir to some, Tharkun to others…”

“Enough with the niceties,” Thorin snapped before Hawke could say anything else. “You’re not welcome here. You didn’t meet us on the ledge, leaving us to our fates, and now you come here with the Elvenking. What do you want?”

“I understand that there are bad news, but there are very pressing matters to still discuss…”

Thorin glared at him. At least the old man had the decency to look ashamed at so callously intruding on them at such a moment. Probably he had got the details from the elves, although Thorin doubted they knew who Kili was to him.

He saw Hawke bite her lip as she too glanced down at him, and Thorin knew they were right, knew he had to pull himself together and see this through, or the whole quest would be meaningless. Looking at the two wizards, one who had given him the key to the secret door, and the other who had killed the dragon, Thorin closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Through the soles of his boots, he could feel his Mountain singing to him, and it gave him strength, it gave him resilience. It couldn’t heal the black void in his chest, but it could give him hope that maybe, _maybe_ he was still alive, his Kili. He had to believe in that, as unshakably as Fili did.

“Dwalin,” he barked, a steely tone threaded in his voice again. “Get those maps on the table.”

“Thranduil, get over here, we’re not done yet. Fili, you sit down and listen. Bard!”

Hawke followed the dwarf king back to the table, marveling at his self-control as he unfolded the papers that Dwalin had brought back. From what she understood, Kili was lost, or injured, or maybe killed, and she frowned, not understanding. She refused to believe that the light-hearted archer was dead. She had helped save him once already, she had brought the elves to Laketown in time. 

She could rack her brain for years and not understand how this time travelling worked. That Kili could be dead, was something completely out of the blue. It just felt impossible.

There was, of course, the possibility that this whole thing was doomed to fail no matter what Hawke did or did not do, but, for now, she refused to believe that.

She had been surprised to see how quickly the elves had rallied. Hawke guessed that Dwalin’s saving one of their own had something to do with it. That, and the subtle relief that the Elvenking had shown when Thorin’s last question had been removed from the table.

The three leaders were arguing loudly about the distances and the provisions, the numbers of their forces and which positions where the most advantageous or hard to defend between the Mountain and the Mirkwood. Never having understood strategy, Hawke couldn’t follow, and instead she glanced over the room, wondering if she could get some more details out of Bilbo or Nori.

That’s when she noticed Fili quietly getting up and starting to move towards the door. Squeezed into a corner behind the table, she couldn’t stop him, and she didn’t think calling his name would be very helpful. He’d just slip away in the confusion.

Hawke narrowed her eyes at the blond. She could understand him wanting to find his brother, but to run away against a direct order from Thorin? She could understand, but she couldn’t let him do this.

After a few fruitless attempts to get Thorin’s or Bilbo’s attention, Hawke sighed. She was a mage. Not to use magic would be as stupid as not using your dominant hand, and this wasn’t even blood magic. Striking her staff lightly against the floor, she trapped the sneaky heir in a glyph of paralysis.

“What…?” One of Thranduil’s guardsmen stepped back hastily from the suddenly frozen dwarf. All heads turned, and Thorin too, finally glanced up from the table, eyes widening when he saw his nephew caught in the spell.

“What did you do, Hawke?” he asked, casting her a murderous glance before pushing a stricken Ori out of his way and approaching the green glyph pulsing on the floor. He cought Fili just in time as he lost balance once the spell wore off.

“He’s alright,” she muttered. “Ask him yourself.”

Hawke felt like everyone was now staring at her, so she pulled herself up and raised her chin. Yes, she was a mage, she thought defiantly. She was a mage, and she wasn’t going to let any dwarf under her protection run off on some suicide mission.

Gandalf tried to come up to her, but now that Thorin was not at the table anymore, Hawke easily sidestepped him and slipped out the door, following Thorin and Fili.

 

***

“What were you thinking?” Thorin yelled in the blond’s face as he held him against the corridor wall. “I told you to stay there!”

“I have to find my brother!” Fili shouted back at him. “You sent him on that mission! You gave him that task, and now he’s probably dead or wounded, and it’s fucking _snowing_ outside if you haven’t noticed!”

“How in the Timeless Void is that my fault?! I sent those wargs after them, Fili? I drove them into a dead end? Did I tell Kili to stay with some elves instead of escaping over that stream, as Dwalin did?”

“I don’t care who’s to blame!” Fili yelled, his handsome face contorted in rage. “My brother may be dead, and I need to find him!” Tears were trailing down his cheeks as he tried to free himself from his uncle’s grasp. Thorin slammed him into the wall, trying to shake some sense into him.

“I need you here, you fool! You think my heart is not breaking?”

“If it was, you’d send me after him! But all you can think of is that cursed gold!”

“I already sent three others, as you’d know if you’d listened back there! But I cannot — _will not_ — leave the Mountain unprotected, Fili! That gold is for you! The whole mountain is for you, for our people! How do you not understand it?”

“You’re putting wealth above your own family, Thorin!”

“Because I’m a king, before I’m your uncle! I am, and always will be; and always the needs of the many will come before the needs of the few! So stop this spectacle and pull yourself together!”

Fili was fighting Thorin in earnest now, and Hawke seriously considered intervening, or running far away and imagining she had never seen this awful scene. Before she could decide, however, a loud crack echoed against the stone walls as Thorin hit Fili hard across the face.

The blond went completely still, clutching at his cheek where a bloody welt was left by one of Thorin’s rings.

“You,” Thorin said, red in the face and panting, “will go to Laketown with Bard and Bain the moment the elves finish healing his leg. As my heir, you will work with those two to get the support of the men. You will then lead them here and act as a prince of Durin and future King under the Mountain. And if you disobey me again, you’re going to regret it.”

Hawke stepped back into the shadows, as Thorin turned and walked back into the meeting room. She hoped he hadn’t seen her.

But Fili had, and as he stared at her, heart-broken and humiliated, she could only hang her head and wish — that Kili was alive and well, that their battle plans worked and that she could do something to stem the tide of hopelessness that was killing Thorin from the inside.

 

***

The snowstorm had ended as quickly as it had started, covering the land in a thin white sheet that was more slush than snow. Kili growled under his breath. The dusk was gathering, and they were both still wet to the bone. He was cold and tired, and _so_ fed up with walking now that he had enjoyed the reckless speed of a horse at full gallop.

"You're tall for a dwarf," Tauriel observed out of nowhere, walking lightly after the dwarf through the rapidly melting snow.

Kili snorted. "Thanks, Captain! You're not that short either."

"But I am."

"You're taller than me."

"I'm short for an elf, even a silvan one."

"Hmm. But you're still taller than me."

Where  _was_  her rearguard camp? Kili was sure he had glimpsed something in the distance when he and Dwalin had raced over the plains a couple days ago. So how far could it be? Tauriel seemed to be holding up alright, but he knew how she hated cold.

It was getting dark. Not to sound whiny, but they urgently needed a roaring, crackling fireplace. A tent. At least a bedroll! After all they'd been through lately, was that too much to ask for — a warm, dry bed, a full stomach and the quiet laughter of his beautiful elven archer as she enjoys his stories? Kili sighed.

On top of all that, Dwalin was going to kill him. And _amad_! Mahal save him from her wrath, if  _she_  ever found out about this! Not that he regretted staying behind with Tauriel, but...

"I was wondering, is that... important? I mean, does it..." the elf spoke up again.

Wrenched from his gloomy thoughts, Kili glanced back at her over his shoulder.

"Is what important?"

Tauriel was worrying her lip as she stared right over his head. "Well, there are people who don't like being shorter than others. Even if they are dwarves, and they're talking to... a Lakeman, for example."

Kili narrowed his eyes at the elf. Something had changed since the battle, something in the way she spoke and acted, even in the way she carried herself. He just couldn't put his finger on it. Then again, she was  _alive_. She could be as confusing as she wished.

"I dunno," he shrugged as he turned and started trudging through the slush again. "Hobbits are shorter than dwarves, and trolls are taller than elves. Guess it depends on the person... Thorin, for example, hates having to look up at people, so he has this... He sort of glares through his eyebrows, you know, without raising his chin. Or keeps distance, to lessen the difference... Or he manages to position himself on a step or slightly uphill — very subtly, of course..."

Oh damn. What was _Thorin_ going to say about all this? His uncle was probably out of his mind with worry by now, him and Fili both!

"...What about you?"

"Huh? What about me?"

"Does it bother you, speaking to... someone taller than you?"

Kili groaned as he turned around again. Really? She was talking about some damn height differences, when they had barely escaped with their lives, and the night was coming, and there was still no camp in sight, and his whole family was going to  _murder_  him the moment he showed his face in Erebor? What was going on in that woman's head?

"Tauriel!" Kili put his hands on his hips and scowled up at her. "What are you talking about?"

"Do you think..." The elf shifted her feet and crossed her arms over her chest. There was that shuttered expression again as she stared into the distance.

"What do you think I’d be like if I were a dwarf, Kili?" she suddenly blurted.

"Heavy," came Kili's unthinking reply before he clapped a hand over his mouth. Then he started laughing. "Oh, Tauriel! Why would you want to be a dwarf?"

The elf flashed him a murderous glance and tried to sidestep him, but Kili was quicker, catching her by the waist and making her face him again. If she had questions, then she would get her answers, and there would be no shutting him out this time. 

"Your height doesn't bother me at all," he said. "I'm the scruffy, scrawny, good-for-nothing fool, mama's boy and beardless wonder. I’m standing here wearing a rusty mail of my forefathers that’s tied up with a strip a woodland elf tore from her dress. I've seen trolls and stone giants, broken fast with a skin-changer and escaped from spiders, elves, orcs and rapids.”

“Stone giants?” she wondered, obviously trying to get away from the discussion now that he had started it. Kili saw right through it.

"The point is, I should be dead ten times over, but I'm not. And if I had to, I would do it all over again, to ensure that you stood here, tall and confusing, and asked me weird questions or woke me up in the middle of the night because you're cold and can’t sleep."

Tauriel hugged herself tighter, as she stood very still, lips parted but no words coming out. Kili wrapped his hands around her pointy elbows.

"You're an elf," Kili continued, "and I'm a dwarf, and every step I've walked away from that damn bog today, I've praised Mahal for that."

"I think you don't fully understand the madness of that barrel ride as we escaped your dungeons. Dwarves swim about as well as an axe. We are heavy, our bones about twice as dense as a man's. We're stiff and stocky, and awfully stubborn. Had you been anything else than you are, ghivash, we would both have drowned. Heck, I probably wouldn't have been able to tackle you and drag you into the stream in the first place. A dwarf would have fought me nail and tooth before abandoning the bodies of her fallen companions. She would have insisted on a funeral pyre, if not a proper burial, common sense be damned."

Tauriel bit her lip as she still refused to look down at him.

"Their spirits have departed. It's just bodies," she said slowly. “They shall forever remain in my memory even so.”

"A dwarf would disagree vehemently. Believe me — I’m grateful to all the powers in Arda that you were not born a dwarf, _amabel_."

The elf nodded. She took a deep breath and finally gave him a small smile, capturing him in her gaze that spoke of shadowy thickets and dark spruces, and all the stars of Rhovanion. Kili swallowed thickly, suddenly painfully aware of his hands on her arms. This was not about warmth or consolation anymore. This was something else entirely, something new and terrifying, an unnamed feeling, fragile as a dandelion seed gliding in the breeze.

Breaking his gaze from Tauriel’s, he traced his thumb along the seam on her upper sleeve, while the elf stood frozen on the spot, her breath held. She seemed as terrified as him as she slowly reached out her hand and grazed his rugged jaw with the tips of her fingers, feather light, cool and wet from where she had been touching her sodden dress.

Kili closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. The next thing he knew, he was wrapped in her arms, his face pressed to her chest where her heart was beating like a titmouse against a windowpane in winter. She held him gently, fingers splayed over his shoulders and cheek pressed to the top of his head. Kili took a shuddering breath, hesitating as he put his arms around her waist and held her closer, nose buried in the cold folds of her dress.

He slowly spread his fingers, feeling her subtle warmth seeping through the clothes, her small movements as she breathed, as she momentarily froze and then hugged him closer. He didn’t dare let his hands wander, but even just holding her like this, feeling her slender form pressed against him, the mesmerizing line of her waist and spine, the subtle rise and fall of her chest as he’d pressed his face against it, the way she fit in his arms so beautifully…

“Oh, _amabel..._ ”

He loved her. Mahal, how he loved her, with her kindness and patience, and calm, quiet acceptance, the likes of which he had never thought he would find. He hadn’t even thought he’d been looking for it, but he had, his whole life. It just figured that he’d find it in an elf.

Even with his eyes closed, he thought he could feel her smile.

“What does it mean, _amabel_?” she whispered against his hair. “You’ve been calling me that for…”

“For seven days? Eight?” Kili chuckled lightly, feeling a slight tremor run through her as she, too, seemed to bite down a laugh.

“Feels so much longer…”

At that, Kili squeezed her, but she suddenly went stiff, straightening up and peering out in the darkness over his head, her hands braced against his shoulders. Kili stepped back, reaching for his sword, only to see that the newcomers were three elves on horseback.

“ _Hestheryn!_ ”

A dark-haired archer dismounted as soon as they came nearer, and she rushed over to Tauriel, taking her hands and searching her face to ascertain she was alright. The two others rode in circles around them, the steps of the elegant, white animals almost soundless in the wet snow. Kili fell a step back, assessing the newcomers, but from the way Tauriel smiled as she assured the other woman, he assumed they were archers of her own company, probably out looking for their Captain.

“Kili,” the redhead turned, reaching out her hand again. “This is Edhel, my deputy. Edhel, this is Kili, a friend.”

The elven archer frowned, looking from him to Tauriel, and then back at him again. Kili had to bite his tongue, so as not to say what he thought about the suspiciousness of the elves, or how it felt to be presented as a friend, not even a good friend, or what he thought about their levels of concern for their Captain if they had only now left their camp to go looking for her.

They were talking, urgent notes cutting through the melodious language. Kili thought he caught mention of Thranduil and Erebor, and more than once the deputy’s grey eyes wandered towards him before returning to Tauriel. The redhead turned around only to apologize for shutting him out, as this concerned their internal affairs.

Debating whether he actually should follow her any further, where there was a whole camp of elves set out to wage a war on dwarves, Kili noticed Tauriel pause at something Edhel murmured to her in Sindarin. The two women shared a long look, but Tauriel didn’t say anything in response.

One of the remaining archers dismounted, offering her his horse, and the other seemed to be wondering if he was expected to do the same for Kili.

Tauriel snapped at them, and then motioned for Kili to get up on hers.

“Heavy you say?” she teased him softly, leading the horse to a boulder that was peeking out from the grass. “Then get up in the front.”

Kili looked at her carefully, not liking the nervous catch in her voice even as she tried to joke with him. He didn’t understand what had just happened. Parts he could guess, but the majority was a complete mystery. Kili stepped up on the stone and ran his hands hesitantly over the smooth leather of the saddle.

“You think this is a good idea?” he asked, turning his head to look Tauriel in the eye.

The elf swallowed and then raised her chin. “They’re my people,” she said. “It’s my camp. The Guard of Mirkwood answers to me.”

Kili cast her a dubious glance. He remembered her saying in Laketown that her King’s favour was a lie, but he hadn’t stripped her of her title, right? Maybe she could pull this off. He trusted her with his life; he had to trust her with his freedom too.

“Alright, ghivash,” he said simply, launching himself into the saddle. Tauriel cast him a glance before she mounted behind him, arranging the wet folds of her dress and then reaching around Kili for the reins, her breath suddenly warm on his ear.

Oh Mahal, Kili thought, feeling her legs pressed up against his, her chest rising and falling behind his back. Oh Mahal, this was going to be one torturous, sweet, wonderful, indescribable ride.

 

***

Later that night, Hawke awoke in the darkness of their sleeping quarters as Thorin removed his heavy arm from her waist and turned around on his stomach. Keeping her close had been his alternative to locking her up at night. That, and putting her staff out of her reach by the wall where he slept.

The mage glanced over her shoulder and drowsily blinked at the dwarf. From the little she could see in the darkness, he had pressed his face in the pillow and crossed his arms over his head. He was lying very, very still.

Her heart lurched painfully. With Kili who knows where and Fili gone to Laketown, he was already so close to losing everything.

Huddled in her blanket, Hawke rolled over and wriggled closer. Wordlessly, she butted her forehead against his shoulder and felt it go stiff.

“What?” he rasped.

The mage sighed. “Oh, Thorin.”

“Leave me alone... Go back to sleep.”

Hawke shook her head, then realized he wouldn’t see it. Considering he didn’t seem all that reserved about touching, Hawke wriggled closer still and put her head on the dwarf’s shoulder. Through the embossed leather of his vest, she could feel him wearing his chainmail even as he slept.

“Talk to me,” she asked.

She more felt than saw Thorin shake his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“How do you know?”

“How could you?”

Hawke closed her eyes, feeling slight tremors against her cheek, as Thorin tried to lie still and not show just how close he was to breaking. Men were such stubborn, brittle, wonderful creatures. She smiled bitterly.

“I’m younger than you, it’s true,” she murmured, keeping her voice down so as not to wake up the others. “I’m thirty-one in… about three weeks before winter solstice, whatever you call it here. But I’ve seen some shit, Thorin. I’ve lost family too.”

Thorin took another shivery breath.

“He… You think I’ve lost him...?”

“Kili?”

“No… Yes… Both of my boys.”

“I think he’s alive. I very much think so. And I think blood is thicker than what you did to Fili.”

Thorin put his head down on his arms again and took a deep breath as another shiver ran through him.

“Do you think I’m going mad?” he asked.

“No… Maybe.”

The dwarf’s back shook as he fought back a mirthless laugh. “Maybe? I hit my sister’s son. What does that make me if not unhinged?”

The mage sighed, closing her eyes and anchoring herself in the warm, earthy scent of the old leather. She knew how he felt. It didn’t make his hitting Fili any less wrong, but she had been there before, where all the world had seemed to be falling apart.

“Unhinged is what you get when you spend too much time with red lyrium,” she said. “And… I guess unhinged is attempting the murder of innocent people, for the acts of someone who doesn’t even belong to that group.”

Thorin was silent, too pained and despondent to ask what she meant.

For the ten thousandth time since she got her staff back, her thoughts returned to the damned question — had Anders been right? What should she wish for — that somehow she had stopped him, or that he was alive and continued his fight?Oh fuck it. If wishes were fishes, we’d all swim in riches, as they used to say down at Kirkwall docks… Perhaps there was no universal answer. Perhaps the only truth she was ever going to find out was that she missed Anders so much that it hurt to breathe, and she wasn’t going to tear the same hole in Thorin’s heart too, by trying to keep him from his mountain and his legacy.

“I’ll tell you something,” she said. “About slavery and blood magic, and all sorts of wrongs you can find in Kirkwall. About darkness. And about healing magic, and light. Would you listen?”

The dwarf shrugged, and Hawke gathered her blanket tighter around her.

That night, she told him everything, from the destruction of her childhood home, to her family’s escape to Kirkwall, about the Witch of the Wilds and the Sundermount elves, about her life as a mercenary, until she’d gone into the Deep Roads and lost her brother. About life in Hightown, about her mansion and the growing political tensions she had been involved in. The qunari attack, the battle with the Arishok, the Knight Commander proclaiming her the Champion of Kirkwall. And the little things in between, like acquiring servants and taking care of a mining operation. Dealing with threats and blackmail, and taxes, and the gossip of the local nobility.

And when it was almost dawn, she spoke about magic. About its healing or raw power, its intricacy and beauty. She explained as best as she could about the Veil and the Fade, the six main schools of magic and how her blood magic was a whole different thing — more dangerous and potentially harmful to the mage herself, but not inherently evil or wrong. It was just power.

“And it is yours, Thorin,” she said, voice hoarse from talking the night away. “My magic is fully in your disposal. I will help you, whatever it takes.”

Thorin frowned. They were lying face to face now, heads resting on their hands as they talked.

“What _can_ it take?”

“Sense of self-preservation, for one….” Hawke chuckled mirthlessly.  “Sleep, will to live, peace of mind, last shreds of innocence and self-control… Blood magic can take a lot, in addition to, well, blood. My own or the enemy’s.”The dwarf shook his head. “I cannot accept that.”

“You’ll have to. I’m afraid the battle will take a lot from you too, more than this quest has taken already, but if I…”

Hawke turned her head to check if the other dwarves were still asleep in the room. She closed her eyes and drew a steadying breath.

“Thorin, if I…”

The King’s blue gaze searched hers thoughtfully.

“If you go mad, with all that blood magic thing?” he guessed. “If you need to be protected from yourself?”

Hawke shrugged, and the dwarf leaned slightly forward, covering her hand with his.

“Then I will take you down.”

The mage glanced down, her throat suddenly tight. It was one thing to die for someone; it was a bit different to let someone kill you. She knew it was not an empty promise. Thorin would not hesitate to end her.

“And if I manage to walk the knife’s edge and remain just this side of redeemable?” she asked.

“Then you will have that chance.”

Hawke turned up her hand and caught the dwarf’s fingers in her palm.

“And there is your answer, Thorin,” she said. “We try our best, but if that fails, we do what we must. And if we succeed, then we sort out the rest. It can be done. We can pull ourselves… pull each other out of this mess. We can hold your Mountain.”

Thorin nodded at her, his eyes downcast. His fingers curled, squeezing hers.

“Thank you,” he said. “For telling me this. For seeing a light where all I see is a bloody wall of orcs and death.”

“Through all that blood, I will fight for you. Not just your life — your sanity.”

Thorin nodded again, looking up at the mage and the sleeping figures of his company. Hawke judged it was almost morning now, and her eyes were drooping close despite her best efforts. The dwarf smirked at her as she fought back a huge yawn.

“Sleep,” he said, reaching out and pulling another blanket over her. “Dream of that light, mage.”

Hawke smiled as she burrowed deeper into the old, worn fabric. She would always dream of it. Always.

 

 

***

His hair was almost dry now, falling in soft, dark tendrils over his shoulders as he lay before the fire, his head resting on her lap. Tauriel lightly combed her fingers through his hair, wondering how she could have thought it coarse before. Maybe the prolonged wetness had done something to it.

It was very late, and she knew she should send Kili to rest in any of the free tents, even if he said he was fine. Tauriel smiled as she remembered his speech today. He was a dwarf, stubborn.

Just a little longer, she thought. Tomorrow he would return to Erebor, and she would go down to Laketown to sort out what her and Kili’s rumour had turned into. According to Edhel, Thranduil had been quite offended by the Master’s veiled accusations, and as the dwarves and elves seemed to have agreed on a truce, the absence of Laketown archers had become the next urgent problem to be solved before the battle.

As they had ridden to the camp, she had told Kili the news, that apparently Thranduil and Thorin had decided to put off their disagreements for now. Kili, in turn, had only then told her what he knew of how exactly Hawke had done away with the dragon, as well as the specifics of his and the other dwarf’s findings: the estimated numbers of the enemy that the raven had told them about, their locations, the possible attack routes. “I’m sorry,” he had smirked at her over his shoulder. “You understand, I considered those to be our internal affairs.”

Stubborn and cheeky.

Tauriel felt relieved that the wizard woman had succeeded in her task. Kili hadn’t gone into details, but for now it was enough to know that the ancient terror was dead.

She stared into the fire, wondering if her King had known about the orcs and if yes, then what had been his reason for sending her to the rear. Or not telling her in the first place. Of course, she was no high commander, but still.

The numbers Kili had mentioned boggled the mind. She had never seen any large battles, but what she couldn’t picture in its entirety, she could picture when reduced to a single scene, a hundred orcs or wargs against ten elves, a dwarf and a man.

For the first time in ages, Tauriel felt afraid. Her free hand curled tighter around Kili’s shoulder as she continued combing his hair.

Her fingers snagged on something at the back of Kili’s head, and she felt him tense, as he lay there, hand under his cheek, facing the fire. So he hadn’t been sleeping. Tauriel sighed.

But then, if he had been awake this whole time, then he couldn’t have objections to her playing with his hair, could he? Again, Tauriel had to wonder when this had become something she thought acceptable.

Kili cleared his throat as she untangled his dark locks and found her aunt’s bead still there. The elf smiled, glad it had served him so well. It had to work for the battle too. It had to.

“Do you know what it means?” Kili asked, his voice unusually quiet.

Tauriel’s smile faltered as she thought back to her family.

“It’s just something I inherited from my other aunt,” she said. Her nimble fingers pulled out the bead, sectioned off a thicker strand of hair and quickly braided it. “I always thought it was protecting me, after she left.”

“Oh.”

Tauriel fixed the braid with the bead, thinking it should hold better now, rather than simply stuck on a strand of hair. Unless… Her hands stilled.

“It… It means something else to you, doesn’t it?” she guessed, embarrassed by the realization of her own forwardness. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have presumed; if you don’t like it, just…” She reached out, ready to take back the foolish token, wondering what she had been thinking in the first place.

Kili caught her hand, turning his head and glancing up at her, his heart wide open in his brown eyes.

“No, leave it. Please.”

She should have asked, Tauriel thought. She should ask now. It could mean anything. But there was something in his look that stilled her tongue and begged her to forget the whole thing. It was important for him, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t tell her. Not yet, in any case.

Tauriel wrapped her hand around his, the warm, sure touch bringing a tentative smile back to her face.

“As you wish,” she said. “Will you tell me one day?”

Kili nodded wordlessly, his thumb grazing the soft skin of her knuckles, but then he frowned as he looked up at her, eyes narrowing slightly as he took in her red hair flowing freely over her shoulders. She had been drying it off by the fire, of course it was unbraided, she thought in a sudden huff. Was that also something that meant something else for dwarves?

“I’ve seen you like this before,” Kili said, “leaning over me, hair falling freely in a river of fire…”

“Oh? Could be when I healed you?” Tauriel guessed. She prayed to the Valar she sounded the least bit convincing. Already, she could feel colour rising in her face as she knew exactly what he was talking about.

Kili paused, but then shook his head, releasing her hand and sitting up.

“Down by the lake,” he said, pointing at her accusingly even as a sly grin was growing on his face. “I thought it was a dream!”

“Kili, what are you talking about?”

“Oh, you know what I’m talking about! You’re a terrible liar, ghivash!”

“What _are_ you calling me the whole time?”

Face burning, Tauriel had crawled just a few paces away from him, when Kili lunged forward, trying to stop her from literally running away from his question. Luckily for her, he tripped over the blanket he’d wrapped around him, as his pants and boots were still drying on the other side of the fire, and Tauriel used it to jump up and make a dash for her tent, her own loaned dress billowing around her bare shins.

Valar, what had she gotten herself into! How could she have been so foolish!

She dove into her tent and whipped around to close the flap, only to have the dwarf crushing into her, knocking her down and refusing to budge an inch when she tried to throw him off.

“Kili!”

“That kiss was real,” he said, voice hoarse and panting from the run. “I didn’t dream it up, did I?”

Tauriel stared up at him, his dark eyes boring into hers sharply. Hands pressed against his chest as she had fought him, she could feel his heart beating madly through the soft elven shirt they’d given him.

“Did I, Tauriel?” he demanded again.

Her mouth gone dry, she was saved for yet another moment, as somebody rapped on the wooden pole of her tent.

“ _Captain?_ _Is everything alright?_ ”

Tauriel froze, glancing up at the dwarf’s dark form sprawled above her. She swallowed thickly, feeling his warm chest rising and falling against her hands as he tried to calm down his breathing.

“ _It is,_ ” she called back to the guard. “ _This is between us._ ”

The guard seemed to be milling in confusion for a moment.

“ _Understood,_ ” he finally said. Tauriel could hear his steps retreating as she looked up at her former prisoner again, her eyes involuntarily tracing the line of his lips.

“Tauriel?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, it was real.”

The next thing she knew, those same lips had descended on hers: sudden, frustrated and so surprisingly soft against the scratchy roughness of his stubble, and the whole world had narrowed down to the warm space between his arms.

Tauriel’s eyes fluttered shut as she kissed him back, her lips parting and letting him deepen the kiss, noses bumping and teeth clashing awkwardly. They learned quickly though, innate elven grace competing with his quick wit and his... his _feeling_ her, _wanting_ her, _knowing_ her like nobody else ever had.

Her hands slid up to his neck, cupping his cheeks and then sinking into his hair, pulling him closer and losing herself in his ragged sighs and warm, earthy scent, the fire smoke caught in his hair and the barely-there smell of bog water still clinging to his skin. He tasted like herbal tea and that spice this particular guard shift was so fond of adding to _everything_ , and it felt like home, _he_ felt like home.

She broke the kiss to roughly pull on the ties of his shirt.

“Tauri, what are you…” The catch in his voice sent a wave of heat right down to her centre, and she cursed the damn Sindarin fashions and her own trembling fingers.

“You,” she whispered feverishly. “Now. I want to see… know. I’ve been blind long enough.”

Kili gasped when she finally managed to run her hands over his naked, hairy chest, fighting the ties and then just pushing his shirt down on his shoulders and pulling him down for another mind-muddling kiss. Her hands where everywhere, his hair, shoulders, neck, face, and then running down his sides, wrapping around his back. Eyes closed, Kili leaned into her touch, any borders between them dissipating into nothingness.

He then looked down at her, arousal and wonder shining in his dark eyes, and Tauriel couldn’t look away. Slowly, he bent down for a gentler kiss, running his hand down her side and hesitating at the ties at her waist. Tauriel nodded breathlessly, and he made quick work of the ties and the small hooks and buttons down the front of her dress.

Feeling his warm, rough hand slide over her naked chest, Tauriel threw back her head and whimpered. She thought she must be addicted to those hands. How could a simple caress…

She moaned, all thoughts scattering, as Kili cupped her naked breast and took the pebbled nipple of the other in his hot mouth. His beard scratched her delicate skin, and she felt liquid heat pooling in her abdomen. Her back arched and her thighs parted of their own volition, as her hand reached for his hip, pulling him down on her.

He bucked against her, and feeling his hard member pressing against her belly left her mind blank.

Then his soft lips were on her neck, his hand pulling up her dress, rough, warm palm brushing her naked skin. Tauriel yanked at his shirt in response, feeling his rigid, thick cock against her and gasping at the thought of it sheathed inside her.

All thoughts of propriety had drowned in his caresses, and she let herself be led by some primal instinct and his ragged breathing, just knowing that she wanted him, breathed him, loved him. She pulled up her knees, hugging his hips and pulling him even closer as he kissed her throat.

He hesitated, supporting himself on one elbow above her and positioning himself at her entrance, and Tauriel bent down for another kiss to erase that doubt in his eyes. She had never thought she could be so inflamed by a man’s touch, so desperate for him inside her, to have him spill his seed in her, to be claimed as his until…

“KILI! Kili, _stop_!” she exclaimed, pushing him off her and suddenly feeling as though a bucket of freezing water had been upturned over her head. The dwarf froze immediately, terrified brown eyes flicking up at her face.

“What did I do? Did I hurt you, Tauriel?”

Breathing hard, Tauriel turned her face away and bit the base of her thumb to keep herself from screaming.

She couldn’t believe what she had almost done! Kili  _obviously_ didn’t know what this meant! How could she have been so _selfish?!_

“There’s no return from that,” she said, starting to sit up and clutching a blanket to her chest. Torn between her shame and arousal, she couldn’t even meet his eyes.

“For elves, this is marriage, and marriage is forever — it doesn’t end even in death. I’m sorry I misled you, _glass nîn_! I should have… I shouldn’t have encouraged you.” She turned away, barely holding back her tears. She had never felt more vulnerable in her life, as if her heart would break and never heal again if he now stood up and left her. He should. That was what she deserved, for never asking and always assuming; and for falling in love with a dwarf in the first place, to the point where consequences simply didn’t matter anymore.

After a moment of heavy silence she felt Kili’s hand on her shoulder, gently turning her back towards him.

“Why _did_ you encourage me, Tauri?” he asked, voice carefully calm.

“Because I wanted it,” she admitted in a barely audible whisper, giving up her composure and letting the tears fall, still unable to look at him. “I wanted you, all our history and customs be damned. But it’s more than customs, Kili, it is a very real bond that stretches over time and space. I cannot bind you against your will, I would hate myself forever…”

“You wanted me,” Kili incredulously repeated. “As a husband. For eternity.”

“I did…”

“And you only stopped me because you thought I wouldn’t like it?”

“Kili, I never even _asked_ …”

“And it’s got nothing to do with my flighty character, or scruffy looks, or strange occupation, or me _being a dwarf_?”

She despondently shook her head.

“Oh, Tauri!” Kili chuckled, gathering her in his arms and pressing kisses on the top of her head. “ _Azyung… Amabel…_ ”

“What _does_ it mean?” Tauriel asked, confused by his embrace and the loving tone of his strange words, when by all rights he should have been angry about the abuse of his trust, about almost trapping him in some inescapable, eternal prison just because he had agreed to a quick roll with the hot-blooded elf.

“It means I’d be honoured, you silly woman,” he said, turning her face to him and running his thumb over her lips. Tauriel pressed up to him, melting into his touch as much as in his soft gaze. Was he seriously considering this? To pledge himself to an elf, to be despised by both their people, to have no place in the whole of Middle-earth to call home?

“Kili, it’s crazy,” she said. “You are young, you…”

“A dwarf loves once, Tauriel,” he gently interrupted her. “I am yours. My heart beats for you, _amabel_ ; even if you reject me, there will never be another. That’s what carrying a lady’s bead in the hair means for a dwarf.”

Tauriel’s breath hitched in her throat even as her eyes continued to search his. So she had inadvertently claimed him then, by the lake? And even then he had been alright with it, kept that bead and then actually _asked_ her to leave it in?

She didn’t care what this would do to her, she would cope one way or another. But she was deathly afraid to hurt Kili.

“Are you completely sure?” she asked. “We won’t have place neither in Mirkwood, nor Erebor. You would be separated from your family. Who knows if we can have our own, if we can have children. You would grow old and die, and I would remain unchanged.”

Kili faltered for a moment, but then he chuckled. “If I get an eternally young and beautiful wife out of this... We'll work something out with my family. They're not _that_ unreasonable. What about you, though?” he asked her seriously.

Tauriel winced. “I would watch you grow old and die, and remain sundered from you until the end of time.”

“Then why would you do this to yourself?” Kili asked.

“Because I will never forget you,” she said. “Whatever happens, I will be longing for you always.”

Kili muttered something curse-like in Khuzdul and pulled her to his chest, burying his nose in her hair. Tauriel closed her eyes and wrapped her hands around his waist, inhaling his scent and listening to the strong beat of his heart. She knew he was the one for her, and it had to be some cruel joke of the Valar to make them be born on the opposite sides of life.

She was young, she hadn’t been looking for any relationships, but this was not something she could postpone to a more convenient time, say, a couple hundred years from now, when she might feel more ready for it. She wanted him, the cheeky dwarven archer with the eye for beauty, and now was the only time they could have.

Tauriel sat up, brushed away the last of her tears and wrapped her hands around his neck.

“By Eru, I am yours. Now, and until the end of time, my heart beats for you, _glass nîn a glawar_ , and there will never be another,” she swore, repeating his own words back at him.

Kili smiled.

“Love is a treasure among dwarves — _ghivash_ ,” he said as he lightly brushed her jaw and then reached up to comb his fingers through her hair, gently untangling a few snags left from their wild tumble. “A love returned is doubly so, a treasure of all treasures — _ghivashel_.”

He leaned in to kiss her, pulling her closer and sinking his hand into her glorious copper hair. Tauriel moaned in his mouth, all conscious thought scattering at the incredible sensation. This was why she had kept it braided around him. After all, no other man in her six hundred and twenty-four years of life had had the tendency to accidentally brush his hands through her hair, leaving her a freaked out mess of shock and desire.

“And how do you call a passion returned?” she asked, smiling through the kiss.

Kili chuckled. “ _Tauriel_ ,” he said.

Tauriel swatted him, laughing, even as she could feel her face grow warm again.

“Then shall we finish this wedding business?” she asked. ”Before you change your mind, _glass nîn_.”

“I would never, but if you insist... What _is_ it you’re calling me?”

Tauriel laughed. She had managed to fully untie Kili’s shirt, but mercifully decided to leave it on, considering they were in a tent and it was quite cool as they sat on top of the blankets.

“I’ll tell you if you tell me all the things you’re calling _me_.” Her mouth went dry again as she ran her hands over his chest and stomach, marveling at the contrast between the soft hair and skin and the hard muscles beneath it. She felt him shudder, his breathing growing ragged as she slowly trailed her hand down the dark line of hair starting at his navel.

“I already told you what’s a _ghivash_ , now’s your turn,” he murmured, looking at her through heavy-lidded eyes.

Tauriel leaned in to kiss his neck, intoxicated by his warmth and his scent, and all the different planes and textures, the chafing roughness of his beard and the softness of that spot beneath his jaw that made him hiss and tug at her hair until she came up for a kiss.

“ _Glass nîn_ means… ‘my joy’,” she panted as he pulled her further up on her knees, finished undoing her dress and took one of her nipples into his hot mouth, teasing the other with the rough pad of his thumb. Tauriel gasped and sank her hands in his hair. “What’s _amabel_?”

“‘Dream of all dreams’,” he muttered, all attention bent on kissing and caressing her.

“I don’t understand…”

“Stupid Khuzdul,” Kili agreed. “Doesn’t translate well.”

Tauriel lay down on the blankets and pulled Kili down with her. There was something about the way he looked at her now, a glint of possessiveness in his dark eyes, and Tauriel found herself lost in the safe space between his arms, covered by his kisses and the weight of his body. Somehow, the shorter dwarf made her feel fragile and gentle, a precious gem to be cherished and protected rather than the sharp and unrelenting guard captain she had been back in Mirkwood. Even so, he didn’t make her feel week, just reminded her that she could be something else too, if she wished.

Kili threw back his head and hissed as she reached down and palmed his hard cock again.

“Don’t play with it, _ghivash_ , I beg you,” he groaned.

Tauriel swallowed and pulled up her knees in that most primal of invitations, nervousness warring with desire in her large hazel eyes. Kili positioned himself at her entrance and pushed, eyes not breaking from Tauriel’s. He was terrified of hurting her, and judging from how she whimpered and stiffened, eyes closed and breath shallow, that was exactly what he was doing. Kili cursed in his mind. Probably elves weren’t built for loving dwarves. Either that, or he simply was stupid. Kili cursed again.

He stopped where he was and bent down to kiss her pert breasts, to rub some of the stiffness away with his calloused, warm hands, hoping she would relax and find some enjoyment in this. For all his teasing and flirting, Kili had never seriously believed any lass would choose him. He had never paid any attention the few times his male friends had talked about how to please a girl. Love was sacred. You didn’t discuss such things over a mug of ale, and besides, since he was never going to get any girl, Kili had usually got up and went home to do something more useful than listen to such talks.

Now he blamed himself for not having more faith.

“I’m sorry, love,” he muttered. “I really don’t know what I’m doing…”

Tauriel smiled up at him, then took his hand and placed it on her breast. “Don’t worry. Just be a bit patient, _glass nîn_. We’ll figure it out.”

Mahal, he didn’t deserve her.

Feeling her gradually relax, he started rocking into her gently, and soon he felt he could move more freely. In tiny steps, he pushed himself deeper, until he had fully sheathed himself inside her. Only the thought of hurting her was keeping Kili from finishing right then and there, but Tauriel moaned and arched her back.

“Go on,” she breathed. “I want you. I won’t break.”

Trusting her to know the limits of her own body, Kili thrust harder, and was rewarded by a breathy whimper and by Tauriel’s knees pulling up closer to her chest. Kili gritted his teeth and gathered all his willpower to make up for the pain he had caused her.

Tauriel was not thinking at all. She was lost to the myriad of new sensations, her skin on fire where he had touched it, her naked thighs lightly brushing against Kili’s skin and shirt, her whole body in an uproar at the new feeling of fullness. And Kili, her dark-haired dwarven husband, thrusting into her with abandon, a look of rapture on his face. Tauriel felt tears gathering in her eyes — this was more beautiful than any starlight.

He gave in and came, barely stifling a groan that would wake up half of the camp. He half-collapsed on her, supporting himself on his elbows, panting and sweaty, and barely coherent. Tauriel wrapped her arms and legs around him, raking her fingers through his hair. For a time, she lay there, calming down and staring up at the canopy of the tent, committing to memory his heartbeat and breathing, the weight of his head on her chest and the feel of his hands beneath her shoulders.

This was a beginning of forever, Tauriel thought. Till the end of time, the Dagor Dagorath. And to think that she had met him only a bit more than a week ago.

She slowly blinked as she felt his softening member slide out of her, followed by a warm trickle of his seed. Tauriel shivered.

“ _Yâsith_ ,” Kili suddenly mumbled against her chest. “Means ‘wife’.”

Tauriel cleared her throat.

“And _hervenn_ is ‘husband’.”

 

 

\--------------------------------------------

 _zargun_ [Kh.] — zircon (ok, it's not Khuzdul, it's Persian, according to Wikipedia, but sounds close enough)  
_Shazara!_ [Kh.] — Silence!  
_basvaarad_ [Qunlat] — the keeper of a mage that is a _bas_ (=not a Qunari) (and a Qunari is somebody adhering to the teachings of Qun, not a separate race)  
_amad_ [Kh] — mother  
_ghivash_ [Kh] — 'dear' when not in italics (that's Kili's personal bastardization of the ancient, sacred language); 'treasure' when used with the proper Khuzdul intonation (and in italics)  
_amabel_ [Kh] — dream of all dreams  
_hestheryn_ [Sind] — Captain-lady? Lady-captain? I'm bad with Sindarin, but let's assume that's something the Mirkwood Guard might call their Captain.  
_glass nîn a glawar_ [Sind] — my joy and radiance (or a more Yodaesque variation thereof, to be precise) (because elves are a poetic bunch that won't be limited by normal English word order)  
_azyung_ [Kh] — love


End file.
